


Passiflora Nights

by forloveandlemons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alchemy, Alpha/Omega, Background Het, Canon Divergence, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Falling In Love, Headcanon, Horny Geralt, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, Making Love, Monsters, Plothole Fill, Possible Damsel in Distress Elements, Prostitution, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Running Away, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Squick, Triggers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8093221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forloveandlemons/pseuds/forloveandlemons
Summary: In his search for Ciri, Geralt arrives at The Free City of Novigrad. But, a visit to the Passiflora, Novigrad’s most prominent brothel, causes him to sidetrack on a quest after his own pleasures. Lena is only three years away from earning her freedom. But, chance encounters, shady deals, and old ties come in the way of her goal.---------A deviation from the Witcher 3 main plot.





	1. Sex Sells

“Harder.”

She whips him again.

“More, more!”

He is on the bed, bent on all fours with his wrists and ankles tied together, a black velvet cloth laced around his head, blindfolded. He cannot see the brunette with a cane roll her eyes at the grovelling man before her. With the same thin wooden cane, she lightly traces the tip down his spine until it reaches the region of his unsightly reddened bottom. She let the cane tip rest there for some time, slowly bending and pressing it deeper into his skin.

Anticipation is key.

“Beg,” she orders him.

He squirms like a worm under heat. “Please, please… my sweet. Show me your mercy.”

When she decides she has heard enough, slowly, she lowers her lips to the side of his face, and brushes them against his earlobe. The man trembles, and she whispers in sweet, sinful melody, “Oh, officer. You have been bad. Very bad indeed. It’s time I bestow upon you what is rightfully deserved. If only your charges could see you now.”

The whip cracks down on him like a high pitched snap of thunder, then again, and again. She hears his howls of pain, his screams of pleasure, watches his wretched body rock back and forth in its constraints. It is not a matter of knowing when to stop, but of anticipating how much the body can take; each man is different. She has done this more times than she could care to count.

He hardens, and with the quick and instinct that can only be dealt by someone of practised experience, she dips one hand underneath his hairy belly, catches hold, and finishes him off. The man lets out one final satisfied moan and drops face down onto the sheets.

As is customary, she climbs on top, straddling his back, and starts to undo the binds before giving him a standard back massage while waiting for him to calm down. She hopes he does not fall asleep, she hates it when they do that. It is always so difficult to get them to wake up, and not to mention a waste of her time. Marquise Serenity always says that time equals crowns. Waste more time, earn less crowns.

Before the officer can nod off, she eases herself off him and slips on her skimpy garments left on the floor, and says in her most honeyed voice, “A hundred crowns if you please, officer.”

“You’re bleedin’ me dry. What do you say to a small discount, eh? Just for me?”

She simply wags her index finger in reply, making sure to keep things playful, and takes the small pouch of coins from him. They always think they can get away with paying less. Let them fool you once, and they will do it again.

Propping herself at the edge of the bed in a come-hither pose, she waits for the officer to pick up the decorated Redanian uniform strewn at a corner and dress himself. With him now fully clothed, she finds herself wondering once again what his charges would think if only they knew that their commanding officer prefers to spend his free time being tied up and beaten with a cane.

“I absolutely adore a man in uniform,” she says, nonchalantly twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Am I going to see you some time soon again, officer?”

His eyes fix themselves on her breasts in a hungry gaze. “Never had better cock than mine, eh? Fuck me, you know I’d love to. But, the general’s ordered for a dispatch. Afraid I got no choice. But I’ll be back, don’t you worry your pretty little head off.”

“Bet you’ve run into some real scary monsters out in Velen.”

“Got ambushed by a pack of ghouls the other day, not far from Glory Gate. Damn beasts tore up five of my men. Fuckers nearly got me too.”

“Necrophage oil.”

“What?”

“Necrophage oil,” she repeats. “It helps kill the ghouls quicker.”

He stares at her for a moment, then bursts out laughing as if she has made a terrible joke, “Now what do you know of monsters? Best thing for you is to stick to spreading those legs. You wouldn’t last a day out there.” He smacks her bottom, still laughing.

There is no point in arguing. She gives him a tight smile, “You’re probably right. So, until next time, officer. Good luck with the ghouls. I hear they can heal themselves up real fast.”

 

 

The day is not unlike any other day at the Passiflora- a beautiful red brick manor at the entrance of Gildorf, Novigrad’s more affluent district. Outside, one would think the place the home of a duke or some nobility of the likes, because a courtyard garden as well maintained as the Passiflora’s must surely cost a sum to keep pretty. But, everyone in the Free City of Novigrad knows about the machinations that take place through its ornate doors, where a licentious symphony of carnal pleasures and wanton fantasies come to life under one massive roof; the city’s top spot for sensual ravagement, and Lena's home for the past eleven years.

Lena steps into the second floor common area, and even though it is only a little after noon, she already sees that it is packed with highborns, wealthy townsmen, traders and uniforms of all sorts. Some are lounging on the plush velvet chaises, libations in hand while the entertainment pulls at the strings of her corset. A buffet spread fit for King Radovid himself sits at a corner, the suckling pig barely touched, for the patrons here do not come to whet their appetites with food.

Downstairs, it is just the same but only bigger- lounges, podiums and fur shags everywhere. Over by the performing bards, Amrynn is busy trying to hook a customer.

“Ever tried an elf before?” Lena caught her saying. “Once you’ve had me, you’ll never want anything else.”

Marquise Serenity, the Passiflora’s madame, stands at her usual spot by the foot of the staircase. Lena hands over the bag of coins to her.

“Excellent!” she says in delight, gauging the weight of the pouch. “This is the third time he’s visited this month alone. He must really like you. And what did he want this time?”

“Oh, nothing out of the usual,” Lena replies.

“Next time he asks for you, try bringing up your price by fifty crowns. Now, go get some rest and spruce yourself up for the evening. Count Tybalt expects to see you in that dress he gave you the last time. I’ll summon for you if we have any requests before then.”

The ground floor of the Passiflora is split into three rooms, two common areas and a dressing room for the courtesans to prep and relax in between shifts. Viola, also known as the Redhead Vixen of the Passiflora, turns to greet Lena as she enters the dressing room. She has just put on her signature gilded mask.

“Oh goodie, you’re here!” she holds up two identical red corsets. “Now tell me, which do you think my Rufus will prefer?”

Lena smiles at her friend, “Going anywhere special tonight?”

“He’s taking me to this new fancy cabaret down where The Rosemary & Thyme used to be, the Chameleon I think it’s called. I think tonight’s the night!” she exclaims, excitement in her voice.

“Damn trader,” Armynn walks in looking ticked off. “I spent all this time with him and all he wants is to shove his face in my breasts. Twenty crowns, I told him, and you know what he says? ‘Ain’t it free if I don’t shove my cock in you?’ Honestly, the gall!”

Armynn and Viola have been courtesans at the Passiflora even before Lena had made her debut. They are riper in age, and a few years more experienced. Viola was orphaned as most girls who work here are, including Lena. Many of the males and a couple of girls who work here had entered the trade willingly, and they all have the same story- poverty-stricken and desperate for coin to feed their families. Armynn, however, nobody knows exactly how an elven beauty such as herself ended up at the Passiflora. Some suspect her parents were Scoia'tael, but that is the general stereotype given to all elves who turn up out of nowhere. As Armynn tells it, she was sold to Madame Serenity, and that is all she knows.

Anyone can be a prostitute, but not all prostitutes can work at the Passiflora. The Free City of Novigrad has around twelve other brothels scattered around the various districts, but the Passiflora is the finest of them all. If you want to work here, you either had to be hand-picked as a child by the madame herself or fit a list of very specific criterias; you had to be literate, good-looking, as well as possess a certain amount of charm in both speech and action. These are all to cater to the clientele at the Passiflora, who aren’t your usual poor townsfolk, shady men or lowly thugs. Here, the customers are polished, wealthy and hold titles, if not the Temple Guards who all have a habit of forgetting their virtues from time to time.

“They can say whatever they like, as long as they pay,” Lena says. “If they want free service, they can go home to their wives.”

“My Rufus would never say such things to me,” says Viola. “He’s different. Well, since you’re here too, which one should I go with. This darker red, or this brighter one? I want it to be a surprise when we go back to his place tonight.”

“Are we talking about loverboy again?” Armynn shakes her head. “You know, I’m surprised Marquise Serenity lets you go out with that dockhand at all.”

“I do my job,” Viola frowns. “What I do after hours has got no business with the Passiflora. It’s going to be our first time, you know.”

“You’re hardly a virgin.”

“It’s not the same! You’re just jealous you don’t have your own man. Even Lena has that rich ancient count.”

“I’m sure I don’t see Count Tybalt the same way as you see Rufus,” Lena points out. “By the way, have any of you seen the book I left on the vanity this morning? A brown one… about Specters. I have to return it to Marcus tomorrow.”

“It’s probably lying around somewhere. I doubt anyone would want to steal your book,” says Armynn. “Marquise Serenity had the cleaners in here this morning. Honestly Lena, the amount of times you visit that bookstore, one would think you were having an affair with that merchant.”

“We don’t have to sleep with all the men we meet, Armynn. And, Marcus doesn’t know I work here anyway. Besides, he’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

“So’s Count Tybalt.”

“Quit your yappin’ ladies,” one of the courtesan’s, Narcissa, pops her head into the dressing room. “Madame is calling for all of yous. You’re not going to believe this…”

The three of them follow Narcissa out to the larger common area, where Marquise Serenity beckons them over with a nod. But, all three girls do not have their eyes on the madame, and nobody can blame them, the patrons ware staring too. Standing beside Marquise Serenity looms a brutish man, almost beast-like; untamely appealing if not for an ugly, red scar running across his left eye, with long hair and a beard of greyish white, like dirty winter snow. A man unlike any Lena has ever seen- huge, vulgar and downright terrifying. Both Viola and Armynn glance at each other uncomfortably. Lena however, cannot take her eyes off him.

Marquise Serenity has that auspicious smile she seems to put on every time she is with a customer. Unlike the girls, there is no shred of a sign that she is at all bothered by the man next to her. On the contrary, she looks even more pleasant than she usually is. “Girls, come! I would like you to meet someone. This is Geralt, we’ve known each other from a long time back. He’s here for a good time, and I promised I would introduce him to my finest girls.”

Lena inspects him some more, and in moments begins to put the pieces together. She remembers the talk, what they whisper about men like him. She has read about his kind before in a book. The signs were prominent. White hair, cat-like eyes the colour of citrine, two swords strapped to his back, and a medallion hanging around his neck- this one of a silver wolf. This man is a Witcher.

The girls did not say anything at first, but it is Amrynn who breaks the silence. “Welcome sir,” she flashes him an easy smile. “We trust our charms and skills will prove to your liking.”

He spoke without smiling, his voice a deep, gruff monotony that Lena found surprisingly soothing to hear. “The Passiflora certainly deserves its reputation.”

“We do what we can to cater to the heart’s every desire,” says Madame Serenity. “My, it’s been what... about a decade since I last saw you? For how long will you be staying in Novigrad?”

“Probably for some time more.”

“Well then, let us get you started, shall we?”

As Marquise Serenity starts to introduce the girls one by one, the words from a page echoes in Lena’s mind as she recalls the book she once read. _‘Indeed, naught is more repulsive than these monsters that defy nature and are known by the name of witcher, as they are the offspring of foul sorcery and witchcraft.’_ \- _Monstrum- A Portrayal of Witchers_. She stares at the witcher and wonders if he really is a monster in human form as the book depicts.

His eyes stop at Lena, and there is a strange thumping in her chest. But, it is not fear that she feels. There is a certain intensity to his gaze she cannot quite describe, as if he just knows… and as if he is daring her to look away, to question his nature. Yet, in all its intensity, there is something else, or lackthereof. They lack emotion.

_‘Unscrupulous scoundrels without conscience and virtue, they are veritable creatures from hell, capable only of taking lives…’_

“And who is this?” he asks, not taking his eyes off her.

“Ah, this is Lena, the Passion of Passiflora,” Marquise Serenity says with pride. “She is a favourite among the titled men who frequent our humble establishment. Raised her myself since she was a child, taught her everything I know. Her touch is tender, but don’t be fooled, she is wild at heart...”

But, Geralt has already switched his gaze back to Armynn. “I’m tired, would like to relax with a beautiful woman, preferably an elf.”

“You’ve chosen well,” Armynn says, her blue eyes glinting. She takes his hand and leads him away, and it is not until they disappear up the staircase does Lena realise she has been holding her breath all this while.

 

 

The witcher returns a week later and this time, he takes Viola to bed. The next time, he chooses Narcissa, and the next, another of the Passiflora’s less popular courtesans. In the dressing room, which also doubles as a gossip hub, talk of the white-hair witcher has become the main topic of discussion amongst the girls, especially those who have slept with him. They tell of the beastly scars marring every inch of his body from chest to back, of his salacious demands behind closed doors, of the stories that say he butchered innocent villagers.

“I bet he’s the one they sing about,” one of them says.

Some of the girls like Armynn find it rather entertaining to have someone more experienced take charge for a change. They revel in the danger he represents. Others like Viola think him daunting, a repulsive creature of the underworld.

“Never could look him straight in the eye the whole time,” Viola says after her time with him.

But, one thing all the girls can agree on is that he fucks like an enraged animal. “Couldn’t really walk straight after that,” Armynn comments. “Had a really hard time with my next customer.”

After that first introduction, not once does the witcher’s attention fall on Lena. As someone who is usually used to being the first pick, this seems to bother Lena quite a bit. Powerful men of Novigrad flock to her bedside, willing to pay any price for her company. Count Tybalt gifts her with beautiful dresses and jewellery ordinary folk could only ever dream of owning. But, the witcher Geralt, for some reason or another, refuses to even acknowledge her presence, even when she once paraded around in her most irresistible, scantily clad, lacy outfit she only ever takes out during the festive season. He hardly bat an eyelid.

It is her day off, and Lena is not expected to be back at the Passiflora until the evening shift begins. Hierarch Square is alive in its usual hustle and bustle. The merchants have already set up their stands, and are busy hawking a plethora of items and special paraphernalia- vials, animal skins, common herbs and the likes. Nothing out of the ordinary. At the centre of the square, a stage has been erected along with a huge bonfire. At the foot of the fire is a small hill of blackened items, cause of the horrid, suffocating smell of burnt junk emanating through the Novigrad air.

Witch Hunters are stationed all around the square, a couple feeding more confiscated items into the blaring fire. The Witch Hunters are a fairly new addition to the city; a leaderless Inquisition which bows to no one except their own conscience and the Eternal Fire, hell-bent on eradicating all sorcerers, magickers and non-humans from this land. Just the other day, Lena had heard a patron say that they burned a man accused practising magic on a stake in the middle of the square for all to witness.

Another Witch Hunter is hollering out propaganda to anyone who will listen. All the while, the townsfolk are busy going about their daily activities as if the flames and smoke are invisible, or at least, they pretend it is not there. Lena is one of them. She pushes the door into Books & Scrolls, and sure enough, Marcus T.K Hodgson is at his usual spot behind the counter, magnifying glass in hand and studying what looks like a painting.

“Simply fascinating… outstanding!” he says without looking up. “Pumpkin, you have to come take a look at this. Worth every single penny I paid, nevermind I have to eat cabbage soup for a year.”

It is a Van Rogh painting, Marcus’ favourite artist; one of his lesser-known works, but a Van Rogh all the same. Lena knows it must have cost Marcus a small fortune to acquire it, but his endless love for art and culture knows no boundaries. This particular painting is of a basket of potatoes. She did not need to guess the name of it.

“If only my Myra could see this. She’d insist we hold a public viewing for everyone in Novigrad to admire its magnificence,” Marcus continues in excitement. “Though I doubt most of the townsfolk in these parts would appreciate such a masterpiece.”

Myra was Marcus’ wife who passed years before Lena even met him. Consumption had taken her life before she could bear any children. Though many years has passed, he often still talks fondly of her to Lena.

“I’m afraid that includes myself. And, I’ve tried your soup. It’s horrible,” Lena chuckles, and places a basket on the counter, packed with untouched food from the Passiflora’s buffet spread. No point wasting it. “Here. You can save your wilted cabbages for the stray cats.”

His wrinkled eyes crinkles as he smiles, finally peering up through his wooden eyeglass. “Roast beef, my favourite. And these apples, why, you can only find apples as red as these in Gildorf.”

“Oh, and this,” she hands him the book she borrowed the last time. “Sorry it took so long. I know it’s your last copy, but I’ve been so busy lately so it took me awhile to finish it.”

“Keep it, pumpkin. I know how much you adore your beasts. Now tell me, what piques your fancy today?” he scratches at his overgrown bush of a beard. “I know, I’ve just acquired some new alchemy books. There’s an updated version about mandrake root and it’s many uses. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting since you’re growing them in your garden. They’re on the corner shelf on the second level.”

Every inch of Books & Scrolls contains floor to ceiling wooden shelves, crammed with tomes, manuscripts, codices and paperbacks of all different shapes, colours and sizes; most of them are dated and frayed at the edges. Even though Marcus’ bookstore is not exactly hidden (it is situated in the busiest centre of Novigrad), Lena still feels like she is completely transported to an entirely different world each time she steps in. Now, alone and surrounded with thousands of books that will take her more than lifetime to read, she bends on her knees and lightly runs her finger through a section of a shelf, taking in the scent of lignin, feeling herself overcome with the familiar sense of vellichor she finds so comforting.

“M… M-M-M...” she murmurs to herself, scanning the array of decorative spines. She pulls out the book on mandrake root Marcus recommended. She places it on the floor next to her and starts looking through the same section again, searching for the reason of her visit.

There it is. She pulls out a simple, bounded black book. On it reads the title in faded lettering, ‘Monstrum, or a Portrayal of Witchers, Volume 2’. She flips it open and scans through an excerpt.

_For it is well known that when a witcher inflicts torment, suffering and death, he experiences a semblance of pleasure and delight, the kind a normal and righteous man only feels when performing his marital duties with his spouse, ibidem cum eiaculatio._

Her cheeks flush a bright pink as her eyes go over the words again; _ibidem cum eiaculatio._ She snaps the book shut, trying to shake away a mental image of the witcher climaxing in bed, his taut body overcome with immense pleasure over her. This cannot happen. She is a whore. She should not be imagining these things. Marquise Serenity always says thoughts like these get in the way of business.

Lena wonders how Viola ever manages to keep Rufus separate from her profession. It must be difficult to be romantically involved with a man when she has built a life on selling her body to others on a daily basis. Maybe, she imagines all her customers are Rufus. It does not matter. It is quite obvious that the witcher has no preference for Lena.  

 _Just three more years_ , Lena reminds herself. Three more years and she will have paid all her debts to the Passiflora and Marquise Serenity, and she will be finally free from this life. Most of the girls are not as lucky, but because Lena has managed to acquire a clientele of high profile customers, the most notable being Count Tybalt, she will be able to buy her way to freedom at a quicker pace. This has always been the ultimate goal she has been working her whole life for- freedom.

She puts the book about witchers on top of the one about mandrake roots, hoists herself up and goes downstairs to pay Marcus. If Lena had not been so engrossed in her little bubble, she would have noticed it, but it is only when she reaches the foot of the staircase does she recognise the saturnine voice speaking to Marcus; the same, familiar coarse monotony. Her feet freeze to a halt. But, it is too late, Marcus has seen her.

“I’ll be just a minute,” he smiles at her unknowingly. “This gentleman here has just lost me a perfectly rare card.”

Geralt’s white head lifts from the gwent deck on the countertop. His cat-like eyes focus themselves on Lena, recognition apparent in them.

“Ah, you’ve picked more than one,” Marcus continues, referring to the books hugged to her chest, unaware of the tension spreading thick in the air. Tension on Lena’s part, at least. “Let’s have a look see.”

Presented with no other choice, Lena regains her composure, walks over and places the books on the counter for Marcus. From the corner of her vision, she sees the witcher cock up a brow. Her attention shifts to the title of the top book, and she knows he has read it. A heavy weight sinks into the bottom of her stomach.

“For you, ten crowns my dear,” Marcus’ voice breaks through the stiff air. “Now, shall I put on a spot of tea for us?”

“Not today, Marcus. I’m afraid I have to run,” Lena says, a little too hastily.

She hands the crowns to Marcus, thanks him, and maintaining a casual manner, strolls out of Books & Scrolls, making sure she did not look like she was in a hurry to be rid of the witcher’s presence.

Outside, Lena never felt so glad to have the horrid smoke of the bonfire fill her nostrils with its suffocating, acrid stench. She starts to make her way across the square, feeling herself relax the more distance came between herself and Marcus’ bookstore. Then, under the beating sun, she notices a great, hulking shadow looming over her own in the cobblestones. Her head swivels back, and there he is, the witcher, right behind her.

Even out in the open, he makes everything around seem minuscule. Dressed in a fitted, black armour of the likes she has never seen, his two swords prominently sticking out from his broad back, he stands out like a sore thumb, and is already attracting uneasy glances from passersby. A perfect picture of a born killer.

“Is that because of me?” he asks, gesturing at the book with a nod.

“No,” Lena answers, keeping her tone as nonchalant as possible. “I just like reading about beasts and monsters.”

Geralt looks at her in silence for what feels like an eternity, and Lena realises she is holding her breath once again. “I see,” he finally says.

Then, he turns and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised, going through the chapter again after I posted it, that there were so many grammatical errors. Oh my. I've managed to fix all the ones I caught already, but if there are anymore, I do hope you excuse me for it. I don't know what got into my head when I decided to challenge myself and go ahead and write this story in present tense, when I'm so used to writing in past tense. I do promise it will get better in the coming chapters.


	2. Racy Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lena develops a sudden avid interest in horses.

Marquise Serenity does not look impressed. Her lips are pursed, and she is shaking her grey head in dismay at the mess on the floor. “Did bandits come by to ransack your quarters? The state of this place, really… Look at all those dresses, chucked away to a crumpled pile! Do you realise how much they are worth? This is very unlike you, Lena.”

But, Lena does not hear her.

“Lena!” Marquise Serenity raises her voice, turning impatient.

“Mmm?” Lena pokes her head up from the book in her hands.

“Really, Lena. I don’t know what has gotten into you this past week. You take few appointments as possible, you’ve skipped all of your milk baths, and you didn’t even notice when Narcissa wore your favourite sapphire earrings the other day,” Marquise Serenity picks her way across the room. “Oh, for goodness sake, would you please come away from the window sill. Quick! Before any of your customers should catch you reading from outside.”

“It’s no big deal, madame. I’ll just get Count Tybalt to buy me a new pair.”

“Yes, I know he likes to give you presents, which is all fine and dandy. But, my point is you’ve been acting very strangely as of late, and it’s not only me, Amrynn and Viola says it too. Now, I come in here and find all your expensive gowns thrown about without a care. You have always placed them back in your wardrobe after use. What if the embroidery unravels? It’s going to cost a lot to fix it, mind you. Oh, would you just get down from that window already?”

Lena rolls her eyes and hopes Marquise Serenity did not catch it, shuts the book she has spent sleepless nights studying, and climbs down from the little reading nook of her private quarters- complete with fluffy cushions and a satin throw. Much like the Books & Scrolls, the small room dedicated to her on the top floor of the Passiflora is filled with an abundance of reading material; wedged into an overflowing bookshelf, or stacked on top one another on her dresser. The only difference is that Lena’s quarters features lovely, ornate furniture and decorative baubles gifted to her by her generous clients, one such count in particular.

“Well, at least your hair is already done nicely,” Marquise Serenity comments on her updo, which she has braided into an elegant low bun, intertwined with a band of floral beads and pearls. “Now, can you please put down that book of yours so you can clean this place up and put on something nice before the count arrives. You know he does not like to be kept waiting.”

With a sigh, Lena leaves the book on the window sill and starts to clean up the dresses. Normally, she would have been excited over days like these; when she would have the chance to get all dressed up like a noble maiden and accompany the count to one of his events. Opportunities such as this do not present itself all that often to the courtesans at the Passiflora. None of the girls own the kinds of things Lena does, nor do they get invited to fancy events by their customers. It is worse down at Crippled Kate’s in Lacehalls, where the girls are used to dealing only with drunken sailors, hoodlums and gang thugs. Lena should be thanking her lucky stars that it was Marquise Serenity who adopted her from the orphanage instead of the madame at Crippled Kate’s.

But today, her mind is not anywhere but in that book about witchers. Everyday since she acquired it, she would run straight up to her quarters after hours and engross herself in its pages, absorbing every word, feeding on every morsel of information about these monster hunters. Having actually encountered one herself, the book only becomes more exciting, and naturally, Lena cannot help but envision Geralt as she reads it.  

_...it clearly follows that the witcher is, in the very matter of his being, a defiler of nature, an immoral and loathsome degenerate, born from the darkest and rankest depths of hell, for only one such as the devil himself can derive pleasure from suffering and torment._

“This is pretty,” Marquise Serenity holds up an intricate gown made of gold and purple silk damask, complete with puff sleeves and ruffled cuffs. “You’d steal the whole show in this.”

“It’s a race, not a ball,” Lena reminds her. “It’s too much for the daytime. I’ll be outdoors most of the time. Hardly flattering if I’m sweating underneath all those layers. I think I have just the thing... ”

She wades through the small hill of fabric and pulls open the gilded doors of her wardrobe.

Inside hangs a row of similarly impressive pieces, works of art to Lena like a Van Rogh is to Marcus, enough to turn any fair maiden green with envy upon laying eyes on her collection. She takes out a whimsical blue frock, the colour of a robin’s egg, adorned with bits of floral embroidery across its tight-fitted bodice.

Marquise Serenity gives a little clap of approval as Lena holds the dress against her body, “Simple, yet not too modest, I like it. That neckline will show off your assets very nicely. Perfect, now let’s get you in a corset.”

“I don’t think I need one, I’m slim enough as it is.”

“Nonsense, you need it to push up those puppies of yours. They aren’t exactly the biggest around.”

Gripping the edge of her dresser, Lena sucks in as Marquise Serenity uses profound strength to lace the strings tight, diminishing any hopes of room for breath. “Remember Lena, you have to use your charms to convince the count to invest in the Passiflora’s new refurbishments. It’s about time, the Passiflora is getting too outdated for my taste, and we are now living in modern times, this place should reflect that. This is what you were groomed for,” she huffs, pulling the strings tighter, causing Lena to gasp for air. “I didn’t pluck you from the streets all those years ago to see you waste away in old age without securing a benefactor. You’ve come so far, don’t let me down now, my little sparrow.”

“But, it’s only for three more years, right?” Lena reminds her. “You said so yourself. I’ll have paid off my debts by then.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that when the time comes. Now, you just have to focus on securing the count’s investment.”

The dress comes on, and Lena studies her reflection in the silver standing mirror by the dresser. She is the definition of ivory elegance, and she knows it, she always has; ever since the day she arrived at the doors of the Passiflora. Marquise Serenity has always made no secret in reminding Lena of the beauty she possesses, or as she likes to describe as “timeless and unobtrusive. Very easy on the eyes,” and so, Lena has always gone on with life knowing that it is her face that always gets her what she wants.

“And, don’t forget these,” Marquise Serenity hands her a pair of diamond teardrop earrings. “There, now you’re complete. I wouldn’t be surprised if anybody were to mistake you for the count’s wife herself.”

“They won’t,” says Lena, finishing off with a swipe of rouge on her lips. “Countess Heleness is well-known in society. Everyone knows everyone in that circle. They know she’s sick and that the count has locked her up in his townhouse, though they don’t mention it to him directly. They will recognise me straight away as the count’s escort.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as you secure the investment. You understand, my sparrow? What is most important is the investment.”

“Yes, madame. Duly noted.”

 

The Vegelbud Residence is a massive estate spanning about 20 acres wide, located an hour’s ride away from Novigrad City in the Pontar Delta region. On the way over, Count Tybalt had filled Lena in on the details of the owners. The estate belongs to the honourable Vegelbud family, and is now resided by Ingrid Vegelbud, daughter of old time society darling Patricia Vegelbud. Ingrid owns the estate, along with her son, whom Count Tybalt mentions is known to be quite an oddball.

“I shouldn’t worry about making an impression with him,” Count Tybalt remarks. “Albert likes keeping to his own reclusive world. Ingrid, however, you must meet.”

They arrive at the gates in the count’s stunning lacquered carriage and are greeted by two footmen who would lead them to the racing grounds. They stroll through the formal gardens, Lena holding on to the count’s arm just as he likes it. Around them are the most gorgeous flower beds and trimmed hedges, trumping the Passiflora’s ten folds, unlike Lena has ever seen. No ordinary folk would believe that somewhere hidden in the disparity that is Velen, lies a lush paradise of blooming roses and singing birds.

“Look at the honeysuckle bushes,” she points out, spying the herb garden not far away. “I can’t believe they grow them here. You can only find plants like this in barren terrains.”

The count gives a hearty chuckle and adjusts his gold eyeglass, “A keen eye for herbs, have you? Ingrid probably had that section done up for Albert. I’ve heard he likes dabbling his hands in the wonders of alchemy from time to time.”

“It is really a magnificent garden.”

“Mm, yes… The Vegelbuds are a very respectable family in society, and obscenely wealthy. Their bloodline can be traced back to the first human settlers in these lands. This race we are attending is not an event to be missed. Have you ever been to a derby before, my darling?” but, before Lena can answer him, Count Tybalt lets out a snort, “Oh, what am I even asking? Of course you haven’t. A woman of your station would never be invited without the companionship of a man such as myself. In fact, I think you may very well be the first one.”

Lena flashes him a polite smile. She has known the count for some years now, and has accustomed herself to the way in which he speaks to her. They had met while Count Tybalt was hosting his first high stakes gwent tournament at the Passiflora, recommended by another noble friend of his who frequents the establishment on the regular. Marquise Serenity still maintains that their story is like something out of a fairytale. As how she tells it, the count was so taken by Lena at first sight, he completely gave up his game just to spend time with her. But, as Lena remembers it, he knew he was losing and so he just forfeited the game to save time, using Lena as the excuse.

Throughout their relationship, the count has been nothing but generous to Lena and the Passiflora, often pampering her with luxurious gifts on top of the hefty sum he pays for her company; today, the count has paid Marquise Serenity eight hundred crowns just to have Lena escort him to the race. Lena is well aware of the reasons behind the count’s attraction towards her; he is just like all the other older noble clients she services, only wealthier. Greying noblemen like him generally prefer her unassuming beauty to a sultry woman like Viola, whose clients are mostly rich traders from lands beyond. But, it is not only Lena’s face that has won her the count’s heart, but also her eloquence in speech coupled with an uncanny ability to make an old man feel young again each time he steps out of her bedroom.

They arrive at the racing grounds, which is about the size of an entire district in Novigrad. The Great Erasmus Vegelbud Memorial Derby, as the annual event is called after, is a race to honour the memory of the late Erasmus Vegelbud, the estate’s patriarch and an illustrious ancestor of the Vegelbud family line. The grounds are already teeming with well-dressed society figures, mingling and drinking under the late morning sun. Servants are busy whizzing about with trays of colourful concoctions, and stable boys are already rounding up prized horses to the starting line.

“Ingrid!” Count Tybalt exclaims warmly as an appealing woman approaches them, drink in hand. “So good to see you. I see the weather is very much in our favour today. Marvellous day for a race. How is dear Albert?”

“Count Tybalt, it is my pleasure,” Ingrid Vegelbud greets them in formal tones. “Yes, a lucky day indeed. I’m afraid poor Albert is down with a cold, so he will not be attending the race today. He sends his regards, though.”

“Ah, how unfortunate! I shall have my manservant send some medicine over once I return to Novigrad.”

“That is very kind of you, but please, save yourself the hassle. Our resident healer is taking care of Albert day and night. ‘Don’t you dare leave his side or I’ll have you thrown into the Crookback Bog,’ I told him,” and the both of them share a polite laugh.

“Oh yes, I’d like you to meet someone, Ingrid,” Count Tybalt motions to Lena, who has been standing quiet by his side all this while. She knows well enough not to say anything until she is presented by the count, or otherwise acknowledged by the other party. “This lovely maiden here is Lena. She works at the Passiflora.”

“... how charming!” Ingrid says, her tone turning a pitch higher. She does not wait for Lena to speak, and turns her attention swiftly back to the count. “Well, I’ve put you in the first stand along with Baroness La Valette and General Voorhis and their guest.”

“Wonderful!” Count Tybalt says, and after another long exchange of pleasantries, they finally part ways and stroll towards their stand.

The race is about to begin, and the spectators are already busy putting their bets in place. Lena and Count Tybalt’s seats are situated at the highest tier in stand one, right in front of the start and finish line. There are only two other persons at the top when they arrive. The woman who Lena guesses is the Baroness La Valette, greets them with the same smile plastered on every nobles’ face whenever they greet their counterparts. Beside her is a pale, somber-looking man who can only be General Voorhis.

“Good to see you, count,” the baroness says. “Why, if I had known you were coming, I’d have insisted you ride with me and the general.” Her eyes shifts to Lena, “Oh, and you’ve brought a guest. Pleasure to me you, my dear. I do apologise, I’m afraid my memory escapes me. From which family are you from?”

“Oh, no. You’re not mistaken, baroness. I’m Lena, from the Passiflora.”

“Ah…” the baroness’ eyes light up in realisation. “Why, my villa is just opposite of it. And please, call me Maria. Baroness just makes me feel like I’m about to bite the dust.”

General Voorhis however, is less forgiving. “Hmm… adequate. Do all the girls at the Passiflora dress this nicely?”

“Only when she has someone such as the count here at her side,” Lena replies, flashing the general her sweetest smile. “Why, I wouldn’t be here at the race in the presence of your good company if it wasn’t for the count. I’m a lucky girl.”

“Oh my dear Lena, you do flatter me so,” Count Tybalt says, gazing dotingly at her through his ridiculous eyeglass. “Well, any gold on the mares to win?”

“Mine is on the Zerrikanian Bay,” General Voorhis smirks. “But, Baroness Maria thinks the Cantarella will take the win.”

“Know anything about race horses, Lena?” Maria asks. “You might want to place a bet if you wish. The race about to start any minute. Oh, look! There they are now.”

Lena peers down at the starting point where the racers are lining up, and in that second, a stifling pressure rises up her chest. Her whole body jolts to a halt. She is staring at one of the racers. She blinks, once, twice. He is still there, mounted on a chestnut horse. The witcher Geralt, in all his white-hair glory. The strange thumping returns, pounding inside her.

“I say, who is that strange man on the chestnut?” Count Tybalt mentions.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Maria answers. “He is a witcher, and our guest.”

“It is him we’re betting against,” General Voorhis adds. “He may be a slayer of beasts, but he cannot outrun a Zerrikanian Bay.”

At that very moment, Geralt’s head tilts up towards the stand in their direction, as if he heard what General Voorhis had said. It took every ounce of strength on Lena’s part not to duck down on instinct, though it would not have made much of a difference in the end, he would have still seen her. For a brief second, Lena convinces herself that he probably does not recognise her, that she is too far up the stand for him to see who she is. Maybe, he is looking at someone else, the baroness or General Voorhis perhaps. But, deep down she knows it, that as she is staring at him, he has his gaze trained straight back at her.

“Riders ready?!” shouts the race master. Geralt’s head swivels back to the course. The trumpet blows, and off he goes.

“Are you alright, my dear? You’re leaning quite far out the rails there.”

Lena breaks out of her trance, realising that the pressure of her grip over the railings has caused her palms to turn deathly white. “What? Oh, yes… how silly of me. It’s just that-- the race- it’s so very exciting. All that… galloping!”

“Ah, a natural enthusiast,” Count Tybalt grins. “Well now, I guess we’ll be having to attend next year’s race as well.”

The racers have all but vanished down the track, and all Lena can see of them are tiny dots the size of her thumbnail speeding away in the distance. She shields her hand over her eyes from the blinding sunlight and squints, trying to spot the witcher. But, it is no use. They are too far away.

“Looks like your Cantarella is falling behind, Maria,” General Voorhis comments.

Lena turns around, wondering how if the general possesses magical razor-sharp eyesight, and finds that all three of them are peering through binoculars. _Of course_ , how imbecilic of her.

“May I?” she pulls an innocent face at the count.

“Oh right, yes of course, my dear. Be my guest.”

She all but grabs the binoculars off Count Tybalt and stuffs her eyes in it, scanning the horizon for the racers. Tension rises up in her again when she lands the lenses on Geralt. His long, loose hair is flying back with the wind as he canters forward in an attempt to takeover the horse in lead of his own. Lena’s grip tightens over the binoculars. She cannot look away.

Now, he is neck to neck with the competition. His body is bent forward, and he cracks the reigns once, twice. Her lips parts slightly, and she can feel her chest rising and falling along with his rocking torso. The way he rides, so swift and steady, it is like he is made for this. She imagines if this is how he is like in bed as well- solid and sure.

“Come on!” she hears General Voorhis cry in the background. “I bet two hundred crowns and a perfectly good saddle on this.”

“Well, I’ve no more hope,” Maria sighs. “But, Geralt is proving quite a talent. It’s between you and him now, general.”

“Shall I take a peek?” Count Tybalt suggests, but Lena pretends not to hear him.

The two leading horses are fast approaching the finishing line. It looks like the general’s Zerrikanian Bay is giving Geralt some difficulty to overtake. They approach a bend not far off from the finishing line. In that split second, Geralt cracks at the reigns and his chestnut horse bolts forward, swerving in front of the bay. But, it is not over yet. There is still one last stretch to go.

The battle rages on. The riders draw closer and closer, speeding into plain sight. Lena’s head tears away from the binoculars and sees that the two leading horses are fast approaching their stand, both Geralt and his competitor urging their mares at full speed. The sound of thundering hooves become audible, growing louder and louder. She leans forward, her heart racing as if she is right there with them on the tracks. The crowd is cheering; whistles and shouts thrown about in thick excitement, and the trumpet sounds.

“Ah, so close!” General Voorhis exclaims.

“Looks like you’ve lost your bragging rights, general,” Maria chuckles airily.

“That witcher can certainly work a horse,” says Count Tybalt, clearly impressed. “Which one were you rooting for, my dear?”

“The bay, of course,”Lena answers without hesitation.

Heavy footsteps clunk up the stand, and Geralt appears in a triumphant glow. He is just as massive as she remembers him to be, and all the words from the book she read starts to flood into her thoughts- paragraphs upon paragraphs that detail his beastial nature, his mutant powers, his incredible resistance to injury; everything pouring into her mind like torrential rain.

_Unscrupulous scoundrels without conscience and virtue, they are veritable creatures from hell, capable only of taking lives..._

General Voorhis and the baroness take turns congratulating him on his victory, and Count Tybalt mentions about hiring him as a bodyguard sometime in the future. All the while, Lena stands still in the background, silent, as if she has lost all sense of speech and reflex. She cannot quite figure out what it is about the witcher that entrances her so.

Geralt’s citrine eyes flicker in her direction, and she sucks in a sharp intake of breath. Her hands, thankfully, are still clutching onto the binoculars, or else she would not have known what to do with them. She wonders if her hair is in place, if her makeup looks alright.

“Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s left disappointed,” General Voorhis’ voice pulls Lena out of her daze. “Lena here was rooting for the bay as well.”

“That so?” Geralt’s deep rasp punctuates through the gap between them. He sounds amused. “Tough luck then, I suppose. I should get going,” he casts another discreet glance at Lena, locking eyes with hers, then announces, “The saddle I’ve won, it’s at the stables?”

“You may collect it from the boy stationed there,” says General Voorhis.

Geralt mumbles a curt farewell and leaves their stand. Count Tybalt snaps his fingers for the servant to ply them with more drinks. They make different variations of toasts- to the game, to Erasmus Vegelbud, to good luck and good fortune. Lena plays along, but the witcher’s words keep replaying in her mind. She does not want to seem the fool, she is usually smarter than this. But, what if he had meant what she thought he meant?

She puts down her goblet. “If you don’t mind, I think I should love to explore the grounds for a bit.”

“Oh, but we’re just getting started with the merriments,” Count Tybalt tells her. “The bards are coming up to give a performance soon. I’m sure you won’t want to miss it.”

“I won’t be long, dear count,” she assures him. “But, don’t stop on my account. I’ll just be a quick round, that’s all. As you’ve said, this estate is magnificent. I’m not sure when I’ll ever get to visit the likes of this place again.”

“Yes, but my dear--”

“Let her go, Tybalt. It’s not as if she’s going to run back to Novigrad without you,” Baroness Maria interrupts. She looks over at Lena, and her lips lift into a sneaky smile, as if they are sharing a scandalous secret. “We’ll be here, darling. You take your time.”

Lena returns the baroness a grateful smile and excuses herself from their company before making her way down the stand. Even after the race, the grounds are still alive with activity; an appropriate example of how the rich and powerful spend their languid days, and of how the poor spends theirs catering to the whims of upper society. Fate is never fair. Lena weaves her way through the crowd, searching for a sign that will possibly point her to the stables.

She walks further away from the track, all the while trying to convince herself that what she is doing is not a mistake. Logic tells her to turn back, to return to Count Tybalt and forget about all this speculative nonsense. But, her legs continue to carry her forward, away from the spectator stands, away from the drinks and sumptuous canapes, until the music is only a soft melody in the background.

“Hey!” someone calls out, causing Lena to jump in shock. A stable boy has appeared beside her and is looking at her in a peculiar way. He seems some years older than her, an agreeable fellow with a head of ash brown hair not unlike her own. “Are you lost, my lady?” he asks her. “ You’re with the count, aren’t you? Saw you on the stands with him. The event’s that way, so’s the restrooms.”

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware,” Lena says, trying to sound confident. “I just… umm- you would know where the stables are... I-- I need to, umm… see- how- my- my horse, yes! I need to see how my horse is doing.”

“Over on the left and straight down,” he points out the way to her. “But, all the horses in the race belongs to Lady Vegelbud. I didn’t see any new horses in there. I should know.”

“I’m purchasing one of them. The chestnut.”

“I could just bring it to you. You needn’t go all the way-”

“No!... I mean, there’s no need for it. I should like to see the horse in it’s umm, natural state- of-- environment…”

She must have sounded like a complete buffoon because the stable boy gives her another peculiar look, but then lets her go on her way. In relief, Lena hurries off down the path he pointed out before he can decide to force more questions on her.

The ground surrounding the stables is not as nice as the main track. A pungent stench of manure surrounds the area, invading her nostrils as she trudges through patches of damp grass, her expensive shoes squishing in the mud with every step she takes. This is not the kind of place where one wears a nice dress and velvet slippers to. Bits of dirt and dried grass seem adamant on sticking to the hem of her skirt no matter how many times she brushes them off, so she gives up and lets it drag on the ground. Tendrils of hair have escaped her once perfectly braided bun, and is now hanging loose over her face. She blows at a strand and wipes away the beads of sweat that have formed on her forehead, trying not to think of how unflattering she must look under the scorching midday heat.

A couple of stable boys tending to the feed and water give her more odd looks. “My horse…” she finds herself repeating to them, as if that says it all.

Lena wanders into one of the stables. Inside, it is much cooler, darker now that there is a thatched roof sheltering her from the sun. But, save the horses in the pens, there does not seem to be any other sign of life around. A twinge of regret creeps inside her head, filling her with doubt. This is a mistake, she should not have come. What was she thinking? To even have entertained the notion that he wanted to meet her here. Now, it just seems ridiculous.

“Took you long enough,” Geralt’s deep rasp causes her to whirl around. “Wasn’t sure you got the hint.”

He stands leaning against one of the wood pillars, arms crossed in a casual manner. With a gesture of his head, he beckons for her to follow him, and without much thought, she does just that. Not another word is spoken as he leads her to the back of the stable, until they reach a corner hidden from direct view. Nerves get the better of Lena, and she considers doubling back to make a run for it. It is not too late, she can still walk away if she wants to.

At last, she manages to find her voice. “This place is horrid. The count is going to know when I get back. I stink of horse dung.”

“So make something up. Thought you’d be good at that, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here at all.” She swats at a fly buzzing through. Anything to keep herself occupied so she need not focus on the incessant pounding in her chest.

“I think you do,” he says, taking a step closer, and Lena feels a sudden surge of heat rise up inside her. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Just giving you what you want now. Time. Alone. With me.”

“This is hardly the place to talk-” she gasps when an arm curls around her waist. The next thing she knows, she is being pulled towards him, their bodies pressing into each other.

He backs her up on her wall, pinning her against it with the weight of his hips. Warm lips brush against the curve of her neck. A sigh escapes her as he lets his free hand travel up her front. He cups her breast and she lets out another sigh, feeling his lips work its way down to her collarbone. Then in one swift motion, his hand reaches for her skirt, pulls it up and a strong knee pushes in between her thighs. The arm around her waist tightens, and in one split second, he has her feet lifted up in the air, and the kisses continue.

It is all happening so fast. She did not know what to do, or what to think. To have no control over her senses, over a man, it is not something she is used to. Every single fiber of her being is telling her to give in, to get lost in his relentless touch. At the same time, a small voice in the back of her mind is screaming at her to stop all of this. This is wrong. This is all so wrong… _but, holy hell, it feels so good._

He dips his head to meet her lips, but she turns away. Geralt lifts a quizzical brow and she bites her lip in embarrassment. The corners of his mouth quirks up in amusement, and as if he understands her perfectly, he continues to trail his kisses along the side of her face without further question, tracing her jawline, reaching the nape of her neck. His hand continues to roam her body freely, sliding higher and higher up her thigh. At last, she lets herself go, giving in to sweet temptation. Her fingers reach up to caress his back, going through every rift and fissure of his crafted armour, taking in every detail of their lustful embrace.

Eyes fluttering shut, she feels him against her skin, warm and moist. Her every breath grows sharp, heavy, and she mentally curses ever agreeing to wear the bloody corset that Marquise Serenity made her put on. Geralt gives her sleeves a sharp tug, exposing more naked flesh to explore. His touch is ceaseless, causing her mind to spin uncontrollably, fueled in a heated mixture of daze and exhilaration, a hundred times better than any type of delicious concoction being served back at the stands.

“How’s the book?”

“Mmm… what?” she breathes, then realises he means the book about witchers she has been reading. “What about it?”

“Do you believe what is says about me?”

It is proving quite hard to concentrate, what with Geralt’s hand still running up and down her inner thigh, but he seems determined to get an answer out of her. “Some of it, yes, I believe. Others, I question.”

A vague intrigue glints in his lackluster eyes. “Others such as?”

“If you insist on knowing, I can tell you all about it. But first, you have to let me down. It’s quite difficult to do so from up here.”

He releases his grip on her, and her feet falls to solid ground once more. She gathers her hair must be in a right mess, and makes a mental note to quickly fix it before returning to the count. Geralt still has her pinned against the dusty wall, but it does not look like he is about to move away, so she begins. “Well, for starters, I can tell that what I’ve read so far is definitely hate literature. I disagree with the part which says witchers have no place amongst decent and honest folk. It’s not as if all humans are decent and honest anyway, and you help them out, am I right? With monster contracts?”

“I take what’s available.”

“Are you, as I’ve read, a defiler of nature born from the darkest depths of hell without any conscience or virtue?”

“Get called a lot of things. Depends on who you speak to.”

“Do you have special tracking skills? Can you cast magical signs?”

“Yes, and some.”

“The book didn’t mention what signs. Can you possibly tell me a bit about them-aa-ff-mm!” Geralt’s palm claps over her mouth.

“Someone’s coming,” he places an index finger over his lips, signaling for her to keep quiet. Slowly, he takes his hand off her mouth.

At first, Lena does not hear anything. Then, gradually, the unmistakable sound of footsteps trudging through mud become audible, growing clearer as they near the stable. Lena looks at Geralt, a sudden fear gripping her. Geralt shakes his head but she cannot tell what he means by it.

The footsteps grow louder, and then a voice calls out, “Lena, my dear. Are you here?”

“Bloody hell, it’s the count!” Lena whispers in alarm.

“Lena!” Count Tybalt’s voice calls out again. “The stable boy told me he saw you headed here. You’re going to miss the end performance!”

“I have to go,” she mouths to Geralt, hoping he will understand the words.

He gazes at her in silence for a moment, then nods his head. Thinking fast, she pulls at the band securing her braids, letting her hair fall loose down her shoulders. She pats down her dress and runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame the strays. She tears herself away from Geralt and is about to turn the corner when a hand shoots out, grabbing hold of her wrist.

“Will you see me again?” Geralt murmurs.

To her own surprise, she shakes her head in reaction. “No, I can’t. Not like this. I’m sorry…”

She pulls her wrist away from his grasp, and without another look back, she hurries out of the stables towards Count Tybalt’s cries. The count is standing at the entrance of the stable when she emerges out into the sunlight, surveying the state of his ruined shoes in dismay.  He looks up at her and gasps in horror, “Dear lord, you look like you’ve just traipsed through a forest! The stable boy mentioned you were here. Something about buying a horse? My dear, I don’t know how you’ll be able to rare one at the Passiflora, and I’m not sure Ingrid wants to sell any of them, but I could try to-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Lena says in bright tones. “I was just entertaining the idea of owning one, that’s all.”

“Are you sure? If you really want one, I could try to find something similar. You just need to show me which one-”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” she totters over and links her arm with his. “It was just a silly thought. I was so overcome with all that excitement of the race, I had to wonder what it would be like to own such a fine creature. Let’s just go back to the performance, shall we?”

“Well alright, if you’re sure.”

“Someone wrote you a letter?” she asks, spying a crumpled note he in his hand.

“Nothing important,” he dismisses her question in a rush and stuffs it in his coat, but Lena catches a blurry semblance bearing the likes of her name written on it, or maybe it is just her imagination. It could be that her head is still rushing with leftover elation, it is not making her think clear. She chalks it down to a trick of the mind, and decides to give it no more thought.

And together, Lena and Count Tybalt squish their way back towards the main track. It is only when they are at the halfway point does Lena suddenly remember the promise she made to Marquise Serenity. She assesses herself- her muddy shoes, her unkempt hair and her frayed skirt; not the slightest bit flattering and in a position to seduce a man into investing in a brothel. But, Marquise Serenity will have her head if she does not at least try. She looks to the count and summons up her most angelic voice. Back to business.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, long chapter! I realise that this story is becoming a bit of a slow burn with Lena and Geralt (I probably should add a tag for this), but believe me when I say that the time for them to resolve the tension is fast approaching. It's just that I do so enjoy writing about their unsaid attraction XD 
> 
> But, do let me know if you think their relationship should be developed at a faster pace, or if it is going fast enough. 
> 
> xx


	3. Body Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt does not need Axii to compel someone.

“So, how was it?”

Viola blushes a rosy pink. “Oh, it was wonderful Lena!  We wined and dined all night long, and when it came down to it, you know, the sex…”

“Mhmm?”

“Rufus was so sweet about everything, a real gentleman he is. I fell asleep just like that-” she snaps her fingers- “right after everything, and he let me. Never mind he couldn’t go all the way. It’s the nerves, he says. Isn’t that just adorable?”

“Very much so.”

“I’ve never done that before, fell asleep in a man’s arms. But, it just happened, I don’t know how, but it did.” She giggles, “Marquise Serenity almost snapped my head off when I returned the next morning. I was in so much trouble!”

“Well, that’s the madame for you,” Lena hold up the hairbrush and starts tapping the air, mimicking Marquise Serenity. “I give you girls everything, everything! And how do you pay me back?! Unappreciative! Mindless!... I should sell you lot to Crippled Kate’s” she scolds Viola mockingly and they burst into fits of giggles.  

They are in the Passiflora’s dressing room. Viola is resting on an ottoman facing the vanity while Lena helps with her hair. An orange glow beams through the glass windows, signalling the coming of their evening shift. Lena lets the bristles fall back on Viola’s silky red mane, stroking out every tangle from her long locks. This will be one of the only things she will miss dearly when she finally walks out of this place a free woman.

“We’re planning to wed, you know?” says Viola.

The brush stops midway. Lena stares through the mirror at the reflection of her blushing friend. “Wed? Really? But, how?”

“That’s what Rufus says. He says he’s going to save up a ton of gold and buy me out so that he can have me all to himself.” Viola grins from ear to ear, the flush in her cheeks reddening. “Isn’t that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard? And he says we’ll get a place in one of the villages outside Novigrad, right in front of some sunflower fields, so I’m reminded of how beautiful he thinks I am each morning when the sun rises. I admit, I almost fainted.”

“Wow, that’s… lovely!”

“You don’t think he means it?”

“No-no! That’s not it at all. I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Lena says in haste, not wanting to dampen the mood. She puts down the brush and starts to section out bits of hair for a braid. “It’s just that, well, Velen is not exactly a safe place to start a home. Aren’t you afraid of all the monsters and beasts lurking around? Novigrad is safe from all that.”

“And where would we live? The Bits? My throat’ll get slit before I even walk through the doors.” Then, Viola’s face lights up, “I know, you can come live with us! Once you get out. I’m sure you know all about those nasty creatures from those books you horde up in your quarters. You can tell Rufus how to get rid of them.”

“Ah-jont-feek-eet-worgs-ike-dat,” Lena mumbles through the hairpin clamped in between her teeth.

She extracts the pin and secures a finished braid across the back of Viola’s head, then begins to braid another section. She does not know how to break it to Viola that her happy ever after vision of the three of them holed up in some forsaken part of Velen might not actually materialise into real life, so she decides against it. Better she not be the one to shatter her friend’s dreams. Amrynn will be best suited for this, because the reality of it will most likely be that Rufus will end up getting torn from limb to limb if he were to try and tackle any sort of beast. She did not need to see how darling Rufus’ build is like to assume that he should  just keep to handling shipment crates at Harborside.

Viola peers up at Lena through the vanity mirror, powder puff in hand, and there is a sneaky glint in her eyes. “Do you have other plans then? Or… do you have a secret lover I don’t know about? Go on, tell me! I swear on Rufus’ left pinky I won’t tell a soul. It’s not a great one, a little wonky towards the fingernail, but it’s my favourite one, so you know I really mean it.”

Lena pins up the last of the braids and stands back to admire her work. “There, all done. Pretty good, if I do say so myself. And thank you for your generous offer, but no, I do not have a secret love affair with a dockhand, and you can take Rufus’ finger back. I have not so much a need of it as you do.”

Viola twists and turns her head in the mirror, a jubilant glow still emitting out of her. Then, she spins round like something just dawned in her head. “I know! It’s that count! He’s always treated you awfully nice, giving you all those lavish gifts, and Marquise Serenity says you’ve convinced him to consider investing in the Passiflora. It has to be him!”

“No, Viola. It’s not the count.”

“Ah-hah! So there is someone you’re not telling me about.”

As is her luck, one of the courtesans chooses to saunter into the dressing room before she can think of another cover up. “You’re up next,” she tells Lena, jabbing a thumb backwards.

Giving her friend an apologetic shrug, Lena shuffles out before Viola can lift another finger to stop her. “Don’t think this is the end of it, Lena Delorme!” Viola calls out after her as she disappears out the door.

  


It is her turn on the podium. Lena takes a step up and is greeted with the sight of salacious eyes, hungry and expectant. Somehow, the podiums are always a customer favourite. At the Passiflora, it is a rule that the podiums are never to be left empty because they bring in another smaller but steady flow of income for the establishment. There is something about a barely dressed wench parading on a stage that incites the audience to willingly part with their gold.

Once a month, Marquise Serenity will make a show of it. The courtesans are expected to dress in their best scantily clad outfit- “to entice the senses,” as Marquise Serenity so eloquently puts it- and work their magic while the madame trains her ears for the highest bidder. The winner will get to spend the entire evening with the courtesan he has bid for. The takers have proven to be astounding, and today is no different.

Lena looks upon this particular day of the month like a baker walking in on rats gnawing away at his freshly baked bread. So did all the girls, but the patrons cannot know this, for from their plush chaises they only see what they are led to believe. As luck would have it, Count Tybalt is away on a business trip, or else he will have insisted on paying her whole day’s worth to exempt her from going through this entire ordeal.

Her hands start to slide up the curve of her waist, slow, tantalising the bevy of men flocking around. The aim is to fixate their attention with every single gesture of the body, to ignite their imaginations and encourage their minds to run wild so they forget all about their mundane lives, their wives, even their faiths, and only focus on what is underneath her tight leather ensemble. This is, after all, the only kind of power she truly owns, and she has always used it to reap the benefits.

Over on the other podium, Amrynn is already on someone’s lap. Lena surveys her own audience; one of them is ferociously sucking away on a chicken bone while his beady eyes scan her up and down, shamelessly undressing her. Directing her attention towards him, she lifts the corners of her lips coyly, tosses her hair back and runs her hands down her front, knees coming apart as she sways her body lower, lower; setting a lure for the bulbous man to make a bid. Chicken man has stopped with the sucking, and is staring agog at her while the bone hangs from his open mouth.

“Geralt, so good to see you again!” Lena stiffens upon hearing Marquise Serenity’s high-pitch welcome.

Her head swivels to see Geralt and the madame by the entrance. It has been a couple of weeks since she last saw him at the Vegelbud Estate, and throughout that gap in time, he has been a constant fixture in her mind. The memory of him pressed against her, of his heated kisses on her bare skin; she had initially tried to ignore the thoughts, to brush them aside as a momentary lapse of judgement, a silly mistake, but she only found herself pining for more.

The truth to matter is that every action she took after that day seemed to contradict that very rationale, one such being her request for a very specific piece of writing from Marcus. She had gone to Books & Scrolls the morning after the race, seeking Marcus’ help to locate a codex on witchers. “More factual information. None of those opinionated tales or stories,” she had told him, to which Marcus had promised to see what he could do after many questions about her sudden interest in witchers.

Heavy footsteps belonging to Geralt’s armoured boots pads her way, and the men who were once fixated on her shift their attention to give him weary glares. Ignoring everyone else, he places himself on an empty chaise, leans back in a casual manner and props a foot up on his lap. He casts her a devious smirk, and Lena ignores him, but not before noticing that his overgrown beard has been trimmed short and he has his hair up in a ponytail, but that is where the difference stops. His armour is still the same, just more worn out- like he has just come fresh from battle- and the same two treacherous swords are still poking out from his broad back. If he is waiting for her to react in some way, she is going to make sure he is disappointed.

Trust him to succeed in throwing her off balance each time they meet. Lena wonders what part of “We can’t do this anymore” did he not get. She thought she had made it crystal clear that what happened at the stables was a one time thing, never to be repeated again. It is bad for business. Trying not to seem too perturbed by his presence, Lena gathers her calm and continues on with the show, but with every move she makes, she can feel the heat of his eyes on her, making her skin tingle in ways previously unimaginable.

Her foot missteps. Gasps rise from the audience, and she hears her own voice let out a shrill cry, feeling herself falling forward, fast, out of control. Her eyes snap shut, preparing for the hard floorboards. But instead, she lands into something sturdy, warm. She blinks her eyes open and is met with Geralt’s rough face looking down at her, holding her in his arms.

“Saw it coming,” he murmurs in that low rasp of his, and images of his mouth on her skin start flooding into her mind. “Talk about falling for someone.”

A prickling sensation fills her cheeks, and she knows she must be flushing a bright red. “T-thank you, kind sir.”

He gives her another look of amusement, something he seems to direct her way quite a bit, but chooses not to comment any further. In a hurry, she picks herself up from his hold and regains her posture.

“Is everything alright?” Marquise Serenity coos as she drifts towards them, but Lena detects the notes of concern hidden in her merry voice.

“Yes madame,” Lena assures her. “I just… lost my balance. Geralt caught me just in time.”

Her hawk-eyes are quick to assess the situation, panning from Geralt to Lena, and then at the remaining men who had watched the entire spectacle. Lena has known Marquise Serenity long enough to gather that she is probably cooking up a way to rectify the situation. Courtesans do not simply just fall off podiums on a daily basis. Something has to be done to prevent any tarnishing of the Passiflora’s faultless reputation for quality.

Her bright, cheery voice returns, “Well now, isn’t that just gallant! Lena my Passion Flower, why not you repay Geralt here for his good deed with a little dance, hmmm? Just for him. On the house, of course. And as for the rest, a free round of my best Red imported all the way from Toussaint, courtesy of the Passiflora.”

Lena is about to protest when Marquise Serenity shoots her strict glare, meaning that there is to be no argument. She has no choice in the matter. Geralt is already back in his seat, just looking at her with a devilish grin plastered on his face.

“This is going to be interesting,” he says.

Lena fights the urge to roll her eyes because that might mean suffering the wrath of Marquise Serenity, and climbs on his lap so she is straddling him between her legs. She places her hands on him and runs her hands up his chest, bending low, exposing the naked flesh of her breasts right in his face. Between her thighs, she can feel him growing tense, hard.

She dips to brush her lips against his cheek. “Can you stop popping up out of nowhere?!” she hisses in his ear. “I thought I made myself clear when I said we can’t do this anymore.”

“Not doing anything,” he whispers. “Looks like you’re doing most of it.”

“You never took any interest in me before, why now?”

“So you’ve noticed,” she senses the mischief in his flat tone. “Good girls are hard to come by these days, and you’re a good girl.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Really?” he grips her waist and pulls her away so she is facing him. The intensity in his eyes then is unnerving. “You going to prove me wrong?”

Two can play this game. This is her domain, and if he wants a show, then that is what he is going to get. Slowly, she starts to move her hips, grinding back and forth, fabric against fabric, feeling all of him underneath the layers. Her hands move to take his, and she places them on her breasts, letting him linger; touch what is not his.

His grip tightens, and she hears a sliver of a moan escape him. The bards switch to play a beating symphony. She snatches herself away from his grasp, props her knees up on the chaise and rises until she towers above him, and then she moves, syncing every curve in time with the rhythm. She gives her hair a toss and arches her body forward, letting his fingers run wild exploring each region of her naked thighs, ignoring the tingles shooting up her spine when the rough bristles of his trimmed beard brushes against her skin. However, inside her rages another battle, for it is like attempting to tame a rabid fire, ravenous and insatiable.

Time moves like a deep ocean wave, gathering mass before its fated crash into a rocky cliff. Then, the music dies, everything burns to ash, leaving only their two beating pulses as the survivors, and a pitch black void wrenches the surface underneath, engulfing them in nothing but a dark weightlessness, silent and whole. There they stay, playing hide-and-seek in plain sight, and it takes awhile for the objects to resurrect around her, following with a new found fear that any moment now, someone will find them out, and call her out for what it is, that she might be enjoying this more than she should.

It is weird that she has done this countless of times before, yet now, in the crowded, perfume-soaked confines of the Passiflora, Lena is suddenly aware of the intimacy between them, of how they must look like to everyone else. This bothers her, and she questions if others have noticed it- their closeness; if the madame is going to catch whiff of a desire going far beyond the borders of mere pleasure. And as she slides her body down to meet his gaze once more, and his roaming hands stop to catch hold of her waist, she sees that she has him completely entranced, and Geralt cannot look away. But, so is she.

The corners of his lips curl up. “Hmm… not so good after all then. Only right if I punish you,” he breathes a low, carnal rasp, and something jerks up inside her chest.

“Geralt, stop,” she insists. “Unless you bid for me, nothing’s going to happen. I’ll only sleep with the man who ends up in the bed chambers, and that man _will_ be the highest bidder.”

The clearing of a throat interrupts them. Marquise Serenity has her hands clasped together with an all too bright smile on her face. Her head cranes out of her signature brown fox fur stole- a constant feature wrapped around her shoulders since the first day Lena met her. “How’s my lovebirds doing? What did I tell you, Geralt? She can be quite the fiery minx when she wants to. She’s not called the Passion of Passiflora for nothing. The bidding’s already closed for Lena, but if you pop by tomorrow, I’m sure she’ll make some time especially for you.”

“Closed?” Lena says, confused. “But, I’ve only just started.”

“It seems you made quite the impression with one of the men. I just couldn’t refuse,” Marquise Serenity says in delight. “He’s waiting for you as we speak. I’ve put you in the first room along the balconies. Now run along, my sparrow. We wouldn’t want to keep such a generous patron waiting for too long.”

Lena casts a look at Geralt, and for a moment, it is almost as if he did not want her to leave. But, the grip around her waist loosens. In reluctance, she picks herself off him and leaves to do her job, forcing herself not to take another backwards glance. She reminds herself that this is what she does, she sells her love to highest bidder. It is foolish of her to indulge in silly fantasies, to entertain thoughts of what could be. At the end of the day, she is a whore. Gold should be her only priority, because only gold can grant her freedom out of this wretched life.

Chicken man greets her when she enters the room. He has already taken the liberty of pouring two goblets of wine for them. Lena puts on her best smouldering face and sashays towards him to accept the drink. She gulps hers down whole. The less to remember the better. “Now,” she says in a low, sultry voice. “What shall we do with you today?”

Taking charge, she starts to undo his belt, then his tunic, revealing an enormous pot belly. Chicken man is grinning from cheek to cheek, ready to plow his way into her. His fingers are slick with oil as they run through her hair, and his breath still smells of roast meat wafting through all the wine. She tugs down his trousers and tries not to cringe at his every touch, when he breathes into her, when his greasy fingers slide from her collarbone up to the curve of her neck, smearing every particle of her skin he slides by with leftover saliva and shine.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he tells Lena, grabbing her face between his porky fingers, which slips around as they dig into her cheeks. “You’re lucky. Better me than that mutant you had to accommodate back there. I’m doing you a favour,” he tosses her face from his grasp, leaving Lena stumbling to grab hold of the dresser for support.

An overflowing desire to put a knee between his legs floods her thoughts, but instead she just struggles to find her footing. This is not the first time a customer has gotten handsy with her, it is just part and parcel of her profession. He commands her on the bed, and as he wriggles on top of her, fumbling with the leather straps of her costume, she channels her mind like she always does to somewhere else, somewhere far away, detaching herself from her vessel of a body so that when it came down to it, she need not feel his invasion as much.

Out of the blue, a loud, unceremonious bang erupts. Startled, chicken man’s fingers comes to an abrupt halt. “What the-- what is the meaning of this?!”

Suffocated underneath his weight and unable to move, Lena cranes her neck to get a glimpse of the commotion and sees that the door is ajar, the evening sun casting a great shadow of a man on the walls. Heavily padded feet take a step in, and her pulse skips a beat when a deep, monotonous rasp echoes through the room, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Geralt?”

“Get the fuck out, you vile creature!” chicken man bellows in anger. “Or I shall have you bound and burned at the stake like you should have been in the first- wha-- what are you doin…” his voice trails off as a muted flash of white light appears out of nowhere.

“Be quiet, and get off her,” and in an instant, his naked belly lifts itself off her, allowing a steady stream of air to flow into her lungs once more.

She sits up and sees that the man has gone to stand in a corner, his mouth clamped shut with a dazed expression about his face, like he has been put under a spell.

“Geralt, you’re not suppose to be here!” she hisses, scrambling off the bed while holding onto her loosened costume. “Bloody hell, shut the door before someone sees you!”

Geralt does not reply. Instead, he makes towards the corner where chicken man stands in a trance and waves three fingers in his face. The white sliver of light appears again. Geralt starts to speak, “This is how it will go. You will shut your trap and stay put in this room for the next few hours, then you will walk out of here and tell the madame you had a great time, worth every coin you paid. Then, you will forget this ever happened.”

The man nods in obedience without uttering a single word. Satisfied, Geralt turns to Lena, finally acknowledging her presence. “Leather looks good on you.”

“Did you just hex him?” she asks in disbelief.

“He’ll be fine.” He watches as she tightens the straps of her outfit. “I wouldn’t bother with that. It’s going to come off soon enough.” He strides forward, closing in on her, and runs the back of his gloved hand down her cheek. “You alright? Not the kind of rough you’d want in bed.”

Her eyes widen. “How did you…”

“Call it a sixth sense.”

But she is far from overjoyed. “Great, now we’re stuck here with a confused man and nowhere to go,” Lena sighs, trying not to panic. “I can’t very well waltz out of here with you. I’m suppose to be giving him-” she jabs her index finger at chicken man “- the time of his life. And, oh how wonderful! Is that thunder I hear outside?”

“Anyone ever told you that you can be pretty uptight? Ended up in the bed chambers, didn’t I?”

“Stop it, Geralt. No more games. I meant what I said at the stables. You can’t be here. You have to leave. Now.”

“That what you really want?” he says. “Your pulse tells me something different.”

A strong arm wraps around her waist, and he pulls her into him. A rush of blood shoots up her head, the kind of rush that often leads to common sense being thrown out the window. He reeks of dirt and fatal adventures, and she cannot help but get caught up in its heady mixture.

Geralt lifts her chin to meet his gaze. “Gonna ask you one more time. You want this or not?”

“I…”

She thought she could be strong. She always likes to think of herself as a decisive person, prudent in her decisions. Somehow, it seems like everything is falling in doubt. First, her stupid mistake of meeting him at the stables, and now this. It is like the gears in her mind has a vendetta to fail when it comes to him each time; rationale just ceases to exist.

“My sleeping quarters,” she says, giving in at last, knowing she will probably regret this. “It’s on the floor above. Though I don’t know how we’ll get there without anyone seeing us. I’m suppose to be cooped up in here with this man for the entire evening.”

“Is there another way to reach it?”

She gives a snort. “Only by the window, but unless you can fly I don’t see how-”then she spies the expression on Geralt’s face and it dawns on her. “Oh no, you’re not seriously thinking of-- No… No!... Are you mad? NO. You can’t fly anyway… can you?”

Geralt searches the room, finds an empty chest and dismantles the two swords on his back. He chucks them in the empty chest, slams it shut and turns to face her once again. “I’ll get them later. Is the window open?”

“I left it ajar this morning to let some fresh air in, so it should be… No wait, this is crazy! We are not going to bloody levitate up there. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, it is pouring outside. My makeup will be ruined, not to mention my outfit, and my hair.”

“Climb on my back.” He bends on his knees for her to get on, but Lena stands there completely dumbstruck. “Now is a good time, unless you prefer to stay with blobby here.”

She hesitates a moment longer, then goes to lean herself on him, locking her arms around his neck. He stands up and she wraps her legs around his waist, feeling like a child being given a free ride.

It is pouring outside when they emerge onto the balcony walkway. The once orange infused sky has turned a dark slate grey, accompanied with cracks of lighting and the baritone rumble of thunder. A curtain of rain drapes from the wooden beams, the steady sound of pitter patter tirading onto the balcony rails. Geralt lifts his legs over the railings, and a waterfall gushes down on them.

Lena squints her eyes as trails of rainwater beats down her face and clamps onto Geralt tighter, afraid that she might slip off him at any given moment. Geralt lifts an arm and coils his fingers around the wooden beam above, and even through all the rain, she knows he did not break a sweat as he hoists them both up onto the balcony roof.

The worse thing one can do is look down, but that is exactly what she does. Below spans the empty front gardens of the Passiflora; flower bushes swaying rapidly against with the winds, the cobblestone floor dark with waving puddles of water pooling the indents. One mistake, and that front garden will be her grave. Tearing her eyes away from the ground, she focuses her attention on the back of Geralt’s neck while she clings onto him for dear life. The downpour has created barren streets, and thankfully so, for if anyone were to catch sight of them, a crowd will most certainly start to form in front of the Passiflora.

“Don’t let go,” Geralt’s voice sounds through the drumming of rain.

“Right, because I want to plummet to my death.”

One last pull up, and they were through her window. When he finally lets her down, Lena is just grateful she is still alive. They are soaked, and she curses her leather outfit because with every movement, an unappealing squelching noise erupts, cause of her damp skin rubbing against leather. “Let’s not repeat that again.”

“No ‘thank you’ to the kind sir?” he teases.

“Oh, do shut up.” She grabs for a throw, wraps it around her shoulders and scurries to bolt the door of her quarters.

As she is drying herself off, she tries to dismiss a disturbing thought that she has just willingly let a potentially dangerous man she hardly knows into her private quarters, and by doing so, she has unknowingly exposed the inner workings of her life to a complete stranger, not even taking to account that she does not know a single thing about him. Yet, there is an exhilaration to it that manages to always steer her out of her comfort zone; to want to test the waters with him.

Geralt however, looks like he has done this a thousand times over, and he probably has. As if he owns the place, he busies himself with surveying her quarters, leaving wet patches of footprints on the plush, woven rug as he scans through the piles of books stacked on the dresser, making his way to a lone shelf in the corner. “Quite a collection you got here. Not kidding when you said you like monsters,” he picks up a book to examine its front cover. “There a reason behind it?”

“I would think you of all people should know why. They’re fascinating.”

“Seen any before?”

“A long time ago,” she says.

“How did that happen?”

“It was a long time ago, Geralt. I really don’t remember.” She evades his gaze and starts to fiddle around with the fabric of her throw.

Even though they are no longer caught in heavy showers, a cold draft surrounds her quarters, making her shiver under the throw. Geralt places the book back where he found it, walks over and pulls her in. He is still dripping wet, and as their bodies collide, the unappealing squelch of damp leather suddenly does not seem such a big deal anymore. A new kind of tremble has taken over the chill, the kind of tremble that is only aroused from deep within; stemmed out of thrill and longing, fear and innate curiosity.

“Why me?” she asks.

He catches the tip of her chin and brings her closer. “Why not?”

“Does your sixth sense tell you something I don’t know?”

“Something like that.”

His gloves fall on the damp rug, leaving bare hands sliding up the small of her back, along the curve of her neck, wanting. She does not close her eyes, not yet. She wants to see it, see him; for she never wanted to look at a man so close like this as much as she wants to now. She cannot decipher the exact reason for her reckless behaviour, but there is something about this man, this witcher, that ignites a wildness in her; he makes her want to throw her whole life away, to live in the moment.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods as if there is no other answer for it. “Are you?”

“Been ready for some time,” he says, and she feels his fingers grasping the straps that binds her ensemble. “So, how do you want it?”

It is like walking into a pit of rabid ghouls, and she is the lunatic doing so. She prays for something, anything, to save her from this madness. _Oh, sweet mercy_ , she knows all too well she needs saving from him, because everything of her wants to stay. Her lips part in a whisper, “Show me what you’ve got.”

A devilish grin appears. “Hold on tight, princess.”

There is a sharp tug, and the straps break free. He rips the fabric apart, releasing her body, baring every inch of her naked skin. So much for her outfit. Strong arms sweep below her thighs, lifting her up, beckoning for her to wrap her legs around his waist. Heated lips meet the crevice of her collarbone, making its way up her neck, and she cries out when her back slams against the bookshelf.

He has her pinned, exposed, and under his control. His hips push deeper in between, spreading her legs wider. A swift hand runs up her thigh, circling inwards, caressing the precipice, and a soft sigh escapes her.   

“Not afraid someone might hear us?” he murmurs into her skin.

“This is the Passiflora. What kinds of sounds to you expect to hear at a place like this?”

“Just making sure. Don’t want anyone barging in when I’m making you do this-” he gives her a sharp flick, and she gasps, grabbing onto the edges of the shelf. “Or this,” two fingers press into her. Another gasp. “Or this-” and his fingers start to move, circling down on her, and she moans, going dizzy as his fingers move faster and faster, making her moan again and again.

Her mind is spiralling, her grip tightening around the edges of the shelf, her back arching, head tipping backwards as he strokes and teases, coaxing every moan and cry of pleasure out of her. She cannot stop, she does not want to, she wants more. How could she have done this a thousand times before, but feel so new now? So vulnerable. It does not make any sense. Nothing makes sense, and she does not care. All she wants is to break apart.

A finger glides into her, and she cries out, feeling her muscles clench around him.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he breathes. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Just as she thinks she might not be able to take anymore, another finger pushes inside, and together, they rock back and forth, in and out, driving her to the brink of explosion. Then, the arm around her waist loosens, and she plunges down, impaled, crying his name over and over again as he circles inside her. It is exquisite.

“Geralt, Geralt,” she moans. “Please…”

“Had enough?”

She shakes her head.

“Thought so.”

He wrenches her off the bookshelf, and in one swift motion, she feels herself flung onto the bed. She watches as his armour hits the floor with a heavy clunk, and there he stands, his bare chest marred with countless scars, long, thick and burning red. Her eyes widens, taking in the battlefield etched out on his skin; a million stories untold. He is beautiful.

“Lie down,” he says. “Hands above your head.”

She obeys, and feels her legs being pulled over the edge of the bed, her feet resting on the floor. His hands curl over her thighs, spreading them wide. And then she feels his kisses trail up, up, reaching the borders of her sex. She risks a peek and _oh dear,_ he is on his knees and her head hits back onto the sheets. She shuts her eyes, preparing herself for what is to come. But, his hand finds her first, and she gasps when two fingers pushes her folds apart. And when another finger starts its relentless strokes, she hears herself reduced to moans once again.

Wonder fills his voice. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

She feels the bristles of his beard brush against her inner thigh, and then, a hot slick tongue glides over her sex, and she never felt so divine.

“Oh Geralt...” she moans, balling her fists into the sheets, her every breath growing heavy, ragged, as the heat of him fills the center of her thighs. She is going to need to change the sheets after this.

He is ruthless, compelling her to the brink of explosion again, and just as she is about to let it all go, he pulls away, leaving her writhing for more, wanton and wanting.

The boots come off. He stands up, lifts her legs to wrap them around his waist, steering them onto the bed until he is on top of her, arms propped on both sides of her head so she is met with his intent gaze. His hips press her into the mattress, and she feels every inch of him, hard and ready, rubbing against her folds, driving her insane.

“I want you,” she murmurs, peering up into his insatiable eyes.

She reaches out for the drawer of her side table, but he stops her. “There’s no need for that,” he says. “Witchers are sterile.”

“Oh,” she doesn’t know why she is blushing. “The book said nothing about that.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “I’m surprised. That’s the most important part.”

Now, in close proximity, she sees the gashes covering his chest. They run all the way to his back, most of them old, some still fresh. Without thinking, she reaches to run her fingers along a thick, red mark. Geralt does not move. Instead, he studies her face in amusement.

“How did you not die from all of these?” she asks.

“Are you always this inquisitive during sex?”

“Only with you. You’re just… it’s interesting,” she hesitates. “Everything about you is interesting. But, you do know that this can’t repeat again. It’s just not possible. You’re bad for business.”

He lifts a brow. “I’m not here here for business. I’m here for you. For this-” his hand slides up her torso, catching hold of a nipple, and she gasps. “We’ll see if your mind changes once I’m done with you.”

With no prior warning, he flips her over and pulls up her waist so she is bent on all fours. His hand dips underneath and finds her once again, catapulting her mind to oblivion, flicking, teasing, until she feels her wetness dripping down her thighs. And before her moans can turn into cries, he eases himself inside her, filling her up whole.

Two hands wrap around her breasts, propelling her up into sitting position. His grip tightens, thumbs pressing into her nipples, swirling in circular motions. Her head tips back on his shoulder, and his mouth finds her neck once again. Her arms reach up, fists balling in his hair. He thrusts, hard, and she cries out in sheer delight. And he thrusts again, and again, and her cries do not stop, for the pain is sublime.

Together, they move. One mind, one rhythm, non stop. Him, driving into her over and over. Her, lost in an unfathomable sensation of raw pleasure, taking in every inch of him. She feels herself grow tighter, and at the same time, unravel. His breaths are now ragged against her skin, her own panting growing louder, sharper. A hand slides in between her legs, and she calls out his name as a medley of languid strokes start to couple with with his relentless thrusting.

“Now, let’s revisit this,” he breathes into her neck. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” she cries.

“Do you want this again?”

“Yes.” _Oh, he is cruel._

“Tell me how much you want this?”

“I want you,” she hears herself crying out. “I want you again and again.”

“Good girl.”

His strokes grow faster, harder. A numbness shoots up her head. He groans, thrusting deeper into her. And then she shatters, going blind with all the colours exploding in the back of her lids; numb to everything other than this moment, for there will be no other moment like this ever again.

They collapse onto the bed, exhausted and spent. She wraps a leg around him and they stay like that for awhile, out of breath and completely satisfied. When her eyes finally decide to flutter open, she stares at the scar across his eye until he is looking back at her.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow then?” he says.

She smiles. “You are the worst.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bow chicka wow wow!
> 
> Glad I made it through that. This chapter was absolutely brutal to write. I can only hope you guys didn't find it too lengthy. I've already had to cut out loads of info to do with the main plot and hopefully, I'll be able to sub it into the coming chapters. But hey, they finally did it! XD I was actually debating on whether it would be too son, but then I thought it time anyway for something hot and steamy since there are only a number of chapters left. 
> 
> What did you think of it? Too much? Or too little?


	4. In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lena experiences a change of heart.

She is stretched out languid on the sheets, her limbs in a state of immobile bliss. How many hours has gone by, she cannot remember. Outside, first light begins to creep over the window sill. She was never used to waking at this hour, but watching his able body get dressed at the crack of dawn is a sight far better than any her dreams can offer. In these past couple of months, this has become their routine, never mind the repercussions she will face later in the day. Sleep can wait.

Dim light and heavy shadows sculpt his physique, highlighting each ripple of hard, taut muscle. He is beautiful, and he is hers. Her hands pull at the silk duvet, gathering them to her chest as she sits up, waiting to bid him farewell. He already has his dirty white hair in a ponytail, and is stalking around, every inch of him exposed, to retrieve the pieces of his armour strewn around the room.

She bites her lips when he bends to pick up his trousers, remembering the pleasure of him inside her just a few hours ago. Never had she thought that sleeping with a man could be this arousing, so igniting, and what more with a witcher. After that first time, she had ceased to resist every other time since, and he had opened her eyes, showed her the machinations of true passion, and it truly is wonderful indeed. A wild, wonderful world.

Geralt’s citrine eyes glints when he catches her gaze. “Same time tonight?”

She nods. “I like it when you use the ropes.”

“Do you now?” He pulls up his trousers and starts towards the bed, his marred chest still bare. His gaze flickers to the window, then back at her. “We still have some time. What do you say to a parting gift?”

“Mmmm… it isn’t wise,” she says, but her tone tells him otherwise.

Geralt’s fingers left the button of his trousers and reach to strip her of her duvet. There is a newfound thirst in his eyes as they drink in her naked body. As for Lena, she feels her insides twist and turn from the heat coursing in all kinds of unfathomable directions, and as if by default, her eager legs lift themselves to wrap around his waist. With the heel of her feet, she traces down his back and gently nudges him forward. He falls to the bed on his knees, giving in to her temptation. She arches her back higher and spreads her thighs for his taking.

He is hers, and she is his.

But Geralt has other ideas brewing in his head. He stands up and orders her to kneel on the bed, facing him. She should know by now that he likes it when she resists. She is being too easy. He never does easy. The more he makes her work for it, the more immense the pleasure she will receive.

“Hands together, hold them out,” he orders again and grips her wrists, while his other hand reaches to whip out his belt. Mindless, she obeys, letting him wrap the leather round and round until he has her wrists bound tight. He tugs at the belt tail, lurching her into him. His warm breath spurs tingles down her neck as he murmurs in her ear. “How about a change of scenery?”

In the next moment, he is pulling at the belt, luring her to the window. There is no point in asking him what he intends to do. For one, she can never guess, and second, she has an inkling that she is going to find out very soon.

“Geralt, someone might see us.”

“Let them.”

He kneels her down on the reading nook by the window and manoeuvres the belt upwards, lifting her arms above her head. Her heads tilts up and she watches the belt tail go over the curtain rail above, and then her thighs lift from her heels as he pulls at the leather, hoisting her body up and securing her position with a strong knot.

The witcher stands back to admire his work. “Quite a sight.”

“At least shut the curtains.” Moving her wrists proved to be non existent. He has her trapped, vulnerable at all angles, under his control... in front of a window. “I’m not comfortable with this,” she protests.

“You’ll forget soon enough-” he assures her and takes takes hold of her thighs, spreading them apart. “- when I make you dripping wet.”

A long sigh escapes her lips as he starts to stroke the her center. Brisk, gentle strokes, teasing and taunting. Another hand travels up her naked flesh, caressing her breast, while his two fingers move deftly in between her. The way he works her body is exquisite, and true enough, she finds herself forgetting, too busy being caught up in an indescribable rapture.

“More,” she begs, and this time he relents, bending to catch hold of another nipple with his mouth, making her gasp with every pull and nibble.

Just as she starts to ease into an enjoyable comfort, he lets go and the leather binding her wrists twists as he spins her around to face the window. First light has settled, and the early morning mist is heavy outside, cold drifting into her skin, its dew clinging onto the glass, as moist as the apex of her inner thighs. His hands dips to cup the whole of her sex, pressing up, forcing her back into a severe vertical arch.

“Interesting birthmark,” he notes, referring to the small patch of discoloured skin on her lower back. “Never noticed it before. Looks a little like-”

“Redania on a map,” she finishes for him. “I know. You’re not the first to make that conclusion.”

“Would be funny if you’re actually Redanian.”

“Actually, I don’t know what I am. But, judging by my family name, I wouldn’t say Delorme sounds very Redanian. My brother has it too… the birthmark. It's funny... I can't remember anything else of him other than that.”

“Don’t think I want your brother knowing how I found his sister’s birthmark.”

“I doubt you’ll have to worry about that.”

“I’ll be back. Move and there will be consequences,” he orders, making her squirm even more. He slides his tormenting fingers off her, and she hears his footsteps trod around the room. Not a moment later, he returns and dangles a piece of velvet in front of her.

“That’s not fair,” she says. “How come only you get to see?”

“Because I’m the one calling the shots.”

The world around her shrinks to darkness as he strips her of her vision. Blinded and bound, he has subjected her to his every whim and mercy- which she knows she will receive none of. She tugs at her leather binds in an effort to show her struggle, a sign to show she will not surrender. This was a glorious mistake, and much of a delight to Geralt. He wants her to struggle.

“Bad girl. What did I say about moving?” he warns in a devilish tone. That deep, roguish voice together making wicked threats brews a fatal concoction to her sanity. “Know what I do to bad girls? It’s not very nice.”

In one swift motion, she feels her body suspended in the air, and then her stomach falling on what she assumes is his knee propped up on the reading nook. A hand claps on her mouth and two fingers slide beneath her bottom, deep inside her, moving in and out. Her muffled cries fill the room as he inserts a third finger, stretching into her, making her take it all in. The pain is elating, and as he hits that soft spot inside over and over again, even in darkness she thinks she is going to go blind.  
  
“Did you think this is it?” he growls. “I’m only just getting started, princess.”

Keeping his fingers inside her, he releases her mouth and his free hand trails along the small of her back, caressing the tender skin over the curve of her propped up bottom. It lifts and before she can turn her head to look, his palm comes beating down, hard and sharp.

He spanks her once, twice, and with his unforgiving fingers still rocking inside, her high pitched gasps grow louder and louder, contorting into ragged moans as his heavy palm comes down on her nonstop, inflicting a new type of pain both cruel and sublime.

“Geralt, Geralt!” she moans. Her skin starts to sting from the beating, but the more she cries, the harder he spanks her.

“Gonna have to beg harder than that.”

“Please Geralt, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, please… I want you.”

“Good girl.” He stops and pulls away, and she feels the prickling bite left by his palm on her raw skin.

He spins her around and whips off the blindfold. Her eyes settle on the witcher’s brutish face once more, and as many a time before, she wonders if this is how Viola feels like with the dockhand, because she still cannot quite decide if it is a good feeling at all, for it makes her both brave and afraid.

A prostitute’s profession is to provide bodily pleasures for a customer. It is not in her business to take, only to give. Perhaps it is because he has never once paid for her body, or perhaps more so that by the mere action of denying her the charge of that very pleasure she has been so familiar with whenever she wants, and what more making her work to earn his affections, this man, this witcher, knowingly or not, has inadvertently incited a hunger in her, a certain craving that beckons her into submission, to relinquish all control, to bow and heed his every command in exchange for his mercy. It is a surrender most sweet.

He grabs her face, his rough hand slipping down her neck, choking her, pulling her so close, she can taste the carnal musk of his warm breath.

“What do you want?” he growls.

“I want you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

He takes her from behind, crushing her breasts against the cold glass window. A heavy moan long waiting to be released finally escapes her. As he fills her up whole, grinding every inch of him inside her, the canopy of rooftops outside seem to melt away into one big colourful blur like one of Marcus’ paintings.

Steady and hard, he drives into her with the gut and grit of a commander. The way he rocks her waist, crashing her into his firm hips, steering the both of them to new heights, forcing new sensations- he has the touch of a thug, and the generosity of a nobleman- She feels herself tightening around him, and by his deep groans, he feels it to and drives in harder, faster, and together, they come undone in one last satisfying moan.

Her head falls back on his shoulders, spent and exhausted. He leans forward, hands cupping her breasts to hug her from behind. She tilts her face to kiss his thick neck where beads of sweat have formed. “Will you be free later this morning? There’s someone I’d like you to formally meet.”

His fingers are lazily circling her nipples. “Is it important?”

“It won’t take longer than a cup of tea.”

Geralt does not answer straight away. Instead, he pulls away from her and starts to free her of the leather bindings. A garish red line runs across her wrists, and she rubs at them to let the blood flow back to the tips of her fingers. She looks up and Geralt is already buckling up his trousers. His eyes graze over her, admiring her naked body. “Always preferred you without any of your fancy clothes on.”

“Are you free or not?”

He strides over to his armour and she waits for him to put it on. Over on the buffet lies his steel and silver, ornate and deadly. He straps them onto his back and checks her room for anything else he may still be missing. “Do you want me to go?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Gonna introduce me to your brother?”

“My brother’s dead, Geralt. So is the rest of my family. You have nothing to worry about.”

He takes a moment to process this, but does not say anything in the end. Instead, he walks over to her, heavy boots knocking on the hardwood floor. “Alright, I’ll be there.”

"Perfect! A quarter after midday then, at the Books & Scrolls. I know you've met Marcus before, but I'm sure you'll like him once you get to know the old bat. He's quite a character."

Geralt simply grunts in reply and leaves out his preferred entryway into her sleeping quarters- the window. Unable to go back to sleep and fuelled by the anticipation of seeing him again not too long later, Lena decides to fill up the rest of the morning with a book among the lot forgotten on the shelf- a result of having spent most of her nights with the witcher- and when the rest of the Passiflora starts to wake for a new day, Lena makes her way down to the common dressing room as if descending from a wonderful night’s sleep.

Most of the morning shift girls are wandering aimlessly about the dressing room having just woken up, yawning and meandering around the bathtubs, waiting for the maids to fill them with milk and hot water. Amrynn and Viola are perched by one of the vanities. Both turn to greet her as she enters, but the ominous expressions they are wearing suggests something is not right.

“Who died?” Lena asks, noticing their whispers come to a stop as she approaches.

Viola shakes her head guiltily, but there is a pitiful way in which she is looking at Lena.Amrynn however, cuts straight to the point. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands.

“Lower your voice,Amrynn,” Viola hushes her. “The girls will talk if they find out.”

Lena lifts a brow. “What’s going on here?”

Amrynn’s tone is biting. “Quit playing dumb, Lena! We know.”

It is like having a bucket of snow dumped on her back. Her muscles freeze up, teeth biting down on each other. Then, in an instant, she flashes them the same innocent smile she gives all her customers. “I really don’t know what you’re on about. If this about one of your men switching over to me, I’m sure the Madame will sort it out-”

But Amrynn was never one to shy away from confrontation, and she knows Lena well enough to spot whenever she is spouting nonsense. “Enough, I saw it! This morning. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a stroll in the courtyard, and I saw him jump out of your window. Is that who you were fraternising with all this time? That witcher?"- she scoffs- " I've always thought you were the smartest out of the lot of us, but this is just pure stupidity.”

“I...” Lena falters, trying to think of a grander lie, but it is too late. It did not come as so much of a surprise than a shock. Someone was bound to find out sooner or later, but Lena had always thought it would be later rather than sooner. “It’s nothing,” she tries laughing it off as a trivial matter, seeming nonchalant about it. “More of an infatuation really. I was just having some fun, that’s all.”

“Lena,” Viola says gently, as if threading on thin ice. “Actually, we’ve known this for quite some time. We didn’t know who it was, but we knew you were involved with someone. You’ve changed… not in a bad way or anything like that. It’s just that- we’ve noticed you haven’t been very active lately… with the customers. And we rarely chat anymore, and you’re always locked up in your quarters in the last months. We used to be so close. But, Amrynn and I, we wanted you to tell us on your own terms, in your own time. But of all the men- the witcher? Why?”

“Is he paying you for your service?” Amrynn presses. “Has he even offered?”

Their sudden interrogation builds up an uncomfortable silence between them, like a barricade, Lena on one side and her two friends on the other.

“It’s… It’s not like that.”

It is not the answer Amrynn was expecting, and this only turns her scowl into something severe. “Then you can’t say it is nothing. Has he discussed a possible future with you? Or taken any interest in you besides how good you look naked? Do you even know anything about him? His personal life, his past? Hell, even his favourite fruit! Anything at all besides fucking each other?” A couple of girls cast curious glances their way, and Amrynn shoots them a deathly glare. “Mind your own damn business. Can’t you tell this is private!”

“Don’t be so hard on her, Amrynn. Maybe he’s not what we think he is.”

“Stop encouraging her, Viola! We all know witchers don’t have a heart,” Amrynn scolds. She turns sharply back to Lena and sighs. “Listen to me, end it and you’ll be thanking me later. Don’t be a fool, Lena. You’re only going to end up for the worse. He will leave you- you have to know that.”

“I simply don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” Lena crosses her arms. What does Amrynn know of her relationship with Geralt? Nothing. “How is this any different from Viola and Rufus? You don’t seem to be making a big deal out of it when it concerns them.”

“Does he know then?”

“What?”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“I--” Lena hesitates. Her eyes dart from Amrynn to Viola. They want assurance, for her to say yes, but she can tell from the doubt written across their faces that they already know what the answer is going to be. For some reason, this aggravates her.  “I don’t need to tell him for him to know.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s obvious he only wants to fuck you.”

It is like receiving a cold, hard slap on the face.

“It’s not my fault Geralt wants to fuck me over you,” Lena points out, her tone taking a sudden icy turn. Anger always has a nifty trick of getting the best of her, especially when it concerns her personal life, and so the words continue to spew out her mouth like a nasty eruption of scalding water. “I know you slept with him first, but he went with me in the end. I don’t see why I get an intervention- no, interrogation!- simply because men tend to pick me as their first choice, and it is certainly not my fault that you get stuck with all the leftovers.”

Viola’s hands fly to her mouth in a tiny gasp, and Lena knows she has gone too far. At first, Amrynn gapes at her in disbelief, her eyes morphing to resemble that of someone who has just been pierced by an arrow. Then, a storm cloud starts to brew over her head, and for a split second, Lena is convinced she is going to punch her. But, Amrynn just looks at her like she is something wretched. “You are pathetic.”

If Amrynn had wanted to expand that statement into something nasty, Lena will never know because at that moment, Marquise Serenity breezes into the dressing room.

“Lena, my sparrow, I have news from the count!” She is beaming all over. Just the mention of the count is enough for the madame to turn ecstatic, for it is not the man himself who lights her face up like a pyre, but his implication, for no sound is sweeter to her ears than the heavy jingle of gold. It takes her some time to realise that none of the girls are sharing in the excitement, and classically, she throws them a baffled look. “Well, go on then, who died?”

The girls remain silent, leaving Lena to spin the lie, but while she racks her brain for something good to say, Viola blurts out, “Lena tore my favourite dress!”

Now, if it this was another day, Marquise Serenity would have given it to Lena good. But, it is evident that nothing can dampen the Madame’s mood this morning, because what is a measly dress compared to an entire renovation of the Passiflora? She merely tuts at Lena. “No need to get all worked up girls. I’m sure you’ll pay Viola back for the dress, won’t you my sparrow?” Then, she claps her hands to conclude that the matter has been settled. “Oh, it is the most wonderful news indeed! The count’s wife is dead!”

She pauses for effect, but the three of them just look at her like she has gone mad. The Madame rolls her eyes heavenwards. “Must I really spell it out for you? Now that Mrs Tybalt is no longer, the count is free to take a mistress, and guess who he has chosen?”- her eyes land gleefully on Lena- “In return, the count has promised to fund the entire refurbishment of the Passiflora. Oh, I just knew it! I knew you would be a good return of investment someday from the moment I picked you off the streets.”

“Mistress?” the word hits her like a cannonball. “But, what about my freedom? I’m three years from paying off my debts. You promised.”

“Lena, Lena, you’re not still hanging on to that silly little dream, surely?” says Marquise Serenity, still bright-eyed and smiling, and it finally dawns on Lena that the Madame never intended to keep her promise all along. “Count your lucky stars, girl. The count is offering you a life of comfort and luxury. You can have anything you want. Do you know how many of the girls here would kill to be in your shoes?”

“Well, whoop-de-do,” Amrynn says deadpanned. “Looks like you’re right after all, Lena. All men do just want to fuck you… exclusively.”

“Oh, don’t be a sourpuss, Amrynn. If only you could hook a catch like the count, I’d be swimming in gold right now,” the Madame scolds. “And I’m going to pretend I don’t know you are suppose to be working the floor a half hour ago.”

There is no point in arguing. The Madame will only dismiss her again as being ignorant. Lena drops onto an ottoman, still digesting everything Marquise Serenity has said. She is so lost in thought that she does not catch anything after that. The Madame’s lips are still moving, she is still talking to her, but Lena cannot hear her voice, so all she does is nod. Her argument with Amrynn seems so trivial now, like a distant memory. It is only upon remembering her meeting with Geralt that she finally snaps back to reality- she will have to tell him eventually.

“Excellent! ” Marquise Serenity is beaming. “I knew you would see sense in this. It’s the nerves, isn’t it? Going off to stay in that nice, big villa of his… having servants tend to you all day-it will be like living in a dream!”

Amrynn’s lips are still formed in an apprehensive line, but though she may be square, by no means is she a rat. She casts Lena one last piercing look of caution before stalking out of the dressing room. Marquise Serenity goes on to swoon over how wonderful the Passiflora will be once the refurbishments are done. This lasts for some time more, and when she is finally done, she floats out the dressing room, back to her initial bright and cheery mood, as if the whole world is bowing in her favour.

When it is just the both of them left, Lena snatches the brush off the vanity and starts to untangle her bed hair, while Viola just stands there, looking like she is about to cry. Lena is in no mood to comfort her, she continues to yank the brush through her locks, knowing full well it is not at all healthy for her hair, but she is too bothered to care. Styling it up by herself is going to take some time, and if she wants make it in time to meet Geralt, she should hurry. Her hair is just going to have to settle with looking mediocre at best today.

A clump of hair gets caught in the bristles and Lena winces. If she had the choice, she would have chopped the length of her hair in half- she knows her face will look good with any kind of hair- but Marquise Serenity forbids any of the girls to cut more than an inch off; long hair is attractive, feminine. Finally, Viola relieves her of the brush and helps her out.

“Amrynn means well, you know,” she says softly. “In the end, it’s just us. We always want the best for you, Lena.”

This is Viola’s version of a scolding. If the three of them were born as animals, Viola would be a rabbit, gentle and meek, Amrynn- a praying mantis, not an animal to be exact, but the female always devours its mates after making love. Lena always fancied herself as a caged bird, but in truth, she is convinced she would have been a dog- under the impression of always being in control but really, constantly at everyone’s beck and call.

“What are you going to do about the count?” Viola asks.

“You heard the Madame, my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a good life, Lena.”

“It’s not the one I want.”

"What do you want?"

"I don't know anymore."

She used to dream of wide, open spaces; meadows that stretched far beyond the eye can see. Now, those visions of what used to be the likes of freedom has materialised into something else entirely, something she never had the foresight to anticipate, and no matter how hard Lena tries to dismiss this, Geralt’s face will not disappear.

“Boy, that witcher’s got you bad, hasn’t he?” Viola says, reading her thoughts. “Are you still going to see him?”

Lena does not reply, and waits for Viola to finish securing the pins in her hair. She surveys herself in the mirror, checking her neatly coiffed bun, her ruby red lips, and the girl she hardly knows anymore, staring back at her with eyes lost in some kind of childish fantasy. She stands up, checks herself once more in the mirror just to make sure everything about her is perfect, and then leaves the room without saying goodbye.

 

Geralt did not appear for their meeting. When Lena enters the Books & Scrolls, Marcus peers up at her with that same pitiful lookAmrynn and Viola had used on her and tells her that a witcher had dropped by earlier to pass on a message. He did not apologise, nor did he provide a reason for his absence. All the message said was that he is busy and that if she still wishes to see him, he will be at the Chameleon after dark.

Amrynn’s words start to take effect once again, pumping more doubts in her head. It did not sting because they were harsh, but more so because she fears that her friend may be right. Lena spends the afternoon trying not to seem too affected by it while she is with Marcus. That is, until he decides to broach the topic, and that is when everything comes pouring out of her.

There is something about Marcus which always manages to make Lena feel like she belongs. Perhaps it is that odd, wrinkly smile she knows so well, or that same flavour of bergamot tea she has been drinking for so many years, or a combination of both because other than hiding the fact that she is a prostitute, she never could keep anything from the old bat. She tells him about the count and his wish to make her his mistress, about her dreams of seeing the world- maybe opening up an alchemy store- and finally, she tells him about Geralt.

All the while, Marcus listens with the kind of attention only a father will give to his child. He does not interrupt, occasionally nodding his head as if every word means as much to him as it does to her. After he is sure she is finished, he picks up the pot to refill both their cups, leans back, and adjusts his ancient eyeglass.

“If you don’t mind me saying this, pumpkin… are you sure about him?” Marcus asks, taking a sip of tea. “I know you love your beasts, but this seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t really matter now. I’m promised to the count,” Lena tells him. "He's wealthy, influential, and as old as you are.”

Marcus furrows his brows and takes another sip of tea. “Well, I can tell you this- old men like me won’t be much fun for a young and pretty thing like yourself. What is it with you and men who are about to expire? There’s me, but I don’t count in this circumstance, and there’s the count, and that witcher is probably what- a century old by looks of him? You’re not the only one who has read the books, pumpkin."

She shrugs. “Call it a weakness, I guess.”

Amidst everything, both she and Marcus share a brief, private laugh.

“And to think, I thought my Myra was bad enough going for a man twenty years her senior. Don’t get me wrong, I thank the heavens everyday, but still, I thought she was off her rocker. What is more outstanding was that she knew I didn’t have a penny to my name.”

Lena follows the trail of citrus scented steam rising up from her cracked porcelain mug. “Is this Myra’s favourite tea?”

A sad smile stretches across Marcus’ thin lips. “It is her favourite because this is the tea we were having when I asked her to wed me. I couldn’t afford a ring back then, you see. So I made her a cup of this tea and asked her if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.”

Her palms cup the mug tighter, relishing in the heat it provides. She stares into the burnt orange water with so much uncertainty, it scares her. “Should I tell him, Marcus?”

“If I may, pumpkin,” Marcus says in a tender voice and Lena looks up at the old man she has known for over a decade. “This forsaken world we live in has got its brain all fogged up with dreams of glory and gold. We tend to forget that we don’t need much to live a full life. All the glory can’t win you joy, and all the gold can’t buy you the feeling of waking up to someone you want to grow old with. I highly recommend that you do whatever damn thing it is that makes you happy.”

 

Night falls with the quick of a fox and soon enough, Lena finds herself walking down dark streets in a part of the city she never deemed worthy enough to visit. Her route always ended at Hierarch Square. Though a sheet of black is thick above, the district of Lacehalls seem content to ignore the rigours of tomorrow in favour of late hour rendezvous. Fuelled with wayward banter and cheap spirits, the narrow streets has no need for more light to feel alive.

For the fifth time, someone shoves his way past her. If Gildorf is an impeccably groomed nobleman, Lacehalls is his rotting skeleton left unburied in distraught Velen; a place of dire circumstance and loose morals. Solid shadows of impoverished edifices line the winding narrow streets on which she walks, some with roofs barely intact. If this is the state of Lacehalls, Lena cannot begin to imagine what The Bits must be like.

Careful to keep her head down, she quickens her pace, half certain that at any moment, someone might jump out and slit her throat for the string of pearls around her neck. For good measure, she buries her face further beneath the hood of her cloak, but it still does not console her with the promise of safety, not until she reaches the Chameleon. A young maiden in a red cloak made of velvet is surely prime target for a nasty hoodlum.

Dank streets give way to a sudden convergence of drifting tunes and looming commotion. She arrives at a lone structure erected at the corner of an intersection. Warm yellow light washes out the glass windows onto the pavement where groups of townsfolk mill about with tankards of libations in their hands, huddled together in private conversation and ignorant of the establishment’s newcomers. Written on a hanging signboard above the entrance are the words ‘Chameleon’, illuminated by the light inside. Sighing in relief, Lena pushes the door into the cabaret and searches for any sign of a white head of hair.

The Chameleon is like the Passiflora, yet at the same time, something else entirely. It is neither polished nor crude- an amorous mix of old and new, both decorative and tacky; an overdone statement of underworld opulence- music, dancing, prostitutes, alcohol, art, wooden slabs for tables. She stands by the doorway for a while, taken with the discordant parade ensuing before her without pause, and notices a rather outlandish man eyeing her from across the floor. He is dressed in a purple brocade doublet, complete with purple knee-length breeches and a purple slouch hat containing a single white feather; a young and amiable man by all outward appearances. He bends to whisper something to a dwarf sporting a mohawk and without a thought to subtlety, the dwarf turns to squint his eyes in Lena’s direction.

Lena shifts her weight from one foot to the other, lost with what to do or how to react under the scrutiny of two strangers’ blatant gawks. She is not used to being in a place like this, simply because she has always been the host, never the customer. The Chameleon is packed, with hardly any way of space unoccupied, but Lena spots an empty bench not far away, tucked in a little corner far from all the action; the kind of corner that can either provide ample privacy for lonesome sanctuary or shady deals. In this instance, it is the latter and the only thing holding her back from making a bee-line for the spot are a pair of thuggish brutes lingering not far away. There is a reason why the place is full, yet not a soul has bothered taking that bench.

In a moment of desperation, she contemplates trying her luck anyway- anything is better than lingering awkwardly at the front door- when the man in purple approaches her, followed by his dwarven friend.

The dwarf is muttering something under his breath but the purple man ignores him and flashes Lena a beguiling smile. “My, my... Geralt clearly left out how stunning you are when he was telling me about you! The name’s Dandelion- talented poet, troubadour, performer, skilled negotiator, stirring orator and owner of this fine establishment in which you have graced with your lovely, lovely presence. I do apologise, Geralt is currently occupied, but he’ll be done in a bit I expect. He’s told me to keep you company in the meantime. I hope you don’t mind. These witchers always like to get busy in the nights.”

“Oh no, I don’t mind at all. I wouldn’t want my arrival to cause an inconvenience. He can take his time,” says Lena, a little surprised by the unlikely welcome party.

“Amazing! It always eludes me how Geralt ever manages to find women like you, ever so understanding.”

Dandelion’s smile does not falter as he beckons her over to the bar for a drink. The way he conducts himself- from the way he wiggles his fingers at the barman to the way he holds his goblet- reminds Lena of a swan performing a dance on stage. This man is no stranger to charm and chivalry.

“How long have you known Geralt?” Lena asks as she takes a sip of mediocre wine. She is used to indulging only in very old wines, but she refrains from commenting.

“It’s been a long time since we met in Upper Posada, so you could say I’ve known him my whole life,” brags Dandelion. “Geralt has assisted me in many of my daring adventures. I provide the brains, intelligence and wit, and he provides the arms. But I have been known to proof a quick study in the art of combat- I once caught an arrow with my own hand, it’s the truth I swear!”

The dwarf, who has been silent this whole time, has not once taken his eyes off Lena since they landed on her. It is as if he had taken his own sweet time studying every inch of her face, like Marcus does when he studies a painting. He scratches at the brown of a beard hiding his chin. “Say, Geralt ever told you that you look exactly like-”

“Don’t mind Zoltan,” Dandelion cuts in smoothly, nudging the dwarf with his elbow. “He’s had too much Mahakaman mead. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll bet you my gwent deck- other than the hair and eyes, she’s the spittin’ image of Triss Merigo-”

“Zoltan!” Dandelion’s screech shocks not only himself, but all three of them. His palm claps on his forehead and slides down his face with resign. He turns to mutter at Zoltan. “Great, just great. You know Geralt’s going to kill me for this… Well, he won’t expect it to be you...”

“Who’s Triss?” Lena asks.

"No one of importance. Let’s just say she’s long gone." Dandelion’s winning grin has faded into something rather sheepish. He moves to change the subject. "So... I’m sure you’ve heard of my work, the Ballad of the White Wolf perhaps?”

Amidst the laughter and song, Lena picks up a dull clunking sound drawing closer. Boots of metal and leather trudge down the cabaret stairs, and Geralt appears with a satisfied smirk marking his thin lips. But, it is not him Lena is looking at. She is staring at the barely dressed wench hanging from his arm like a piece of jewellery.

Geralt's citrine eyes locks with hers. There is no trace of shock in them or guilt that comes from being caught red-handed. He does not let go of the whore. On the contrary, he holds her tighter, and it dawns on Lena that he had every intention for her to find him out.

“Ah, there he is, the man of the hour!” Dandelion exclaims, oblivious. “You’ve kept your lovely friend waiting for too long, Geralt. Honestly, I don’t know why you bothered inviting her if you’re going to take your own sweet time upstairs. No matter, now that we're all here, it's time for another round of drinks. Lena here has been exceptional company...” Then, as Dandelion turns to regard Lena, he catches sight of the expression on her face, and his voice trails off. “Oh… Oh, I see… Well... this is awkward.”

Lena’s grip tightens around the stem of her cheap wine. Her breath is tight in her throat, and funnily enough, all she can think about is that the girl hanging onto Geralt is not even that pretty. She closes her eyes, counts to three before opening them again, and without another word, places her glass on the counter and turns to exit the Chameleon.

Outside, a cold shower pours down from the black mass above. Her velvet slippers splash into shallow puddles littering the crooked cobblestone streets. She did not bother with putting up her hood, and as the yellow glow of the cabaret falls behind her, Lena finds herself laughing at her own stupidity, because it is ridiculous to cry over it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughh, I'm terribly sorry about the long hiatus. I've just found out that moving countries is a lot more work than it seems, but I've finally settled down and managed to finish this long overdue chapter. Thank you for being ever so patient with me, and I do hope you are enjoying the story so far. xx
> 
> P.S: I must also say how wonderful it is to receive all the lovely comments!


	5. Out Of The Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some surprises are good, and some not so much.

With a new life comes a new beginning, even if she has no want for it. Count Tybalt has made all the preparations. Her things have been packed- her dresses and jewellery, her little library. A collective of everything in her life the last fifteen years have been neatly placed away in the leather trunks that litter her empty room. When she returns, she will no longer be a courtesan at the Passiflora, but a kept woman.

Lena sits at her reading nook by the window for the last time- her favourite bit about her sleeping quarters. She wonders what use might Amrynn make of this small slice of paradise once she takes over the space. She probably should not guess, she will only be disappointed. The count has promised her a wonderful new library to store all her precious books in his villa; she will have a private parlour to entertain- though she cannot think of any one suitable person to invite besides Marcus- and if she so wishes, her very own herb garden.

Endings like this one do not often befall the women of her profession, everyone knows that. No good is ever deserved by women who sell their bodies to the night. Lena cannot help but feel ungrateful for not being able to appreciate this charmed life laid out in front of her. Becoming a rich man’s mistress is as good as it gets for a courtesan; the grand prize.

One last look, and she closes the door. Downstairs, Marquise Serenity has elected herself chief decorator. After today, the Passiflora is taking a brief vacation from business and will be temporarily closed for refurbishments, as generously sponsored by the count. The madame has fabric draped across an arm while her free hand is directing a rather flustered man- presumably the real decorator- on the precise measurements of the drapings.

Her eyes dart to Lena with an ecstatic grin. “All packed up are we, my sparrow? Now, you’re finally flying free. Come, before you go, I must have your opinion on the draping colours. You always did possess a most refined taste in fashion.”

Lena returns her a final smile. Even though Marquise Serenity may have pawned her off like a piece of jewellery, she owed the madame at least that for taking her in all those years ago. She examines the different shades of red fabric not unlike the drapes of the current Passiflora. “The ruby is nice.”

“Excellent,” Marquise Serenity beams and turns to the decorator, handing him another shade of red entirely. “We’ll go with the merlot. Reminds me of my favourite wine.”

Some people never change, and that is true in the case of Marquise Serenity. She has been the same when she found Lena on the streets thirteen years ago, and Lena reckons she will still be the same thirteen years later- never heeding anyone else’s opinions but her own. Despite everything the madame has put her through, Lena cannot help but feel a little sad to be leaving her charge. She is, after all, the closest thing to a mother Lena ever had.

“Oh, do try to keep things light, sparrow. You know I hate somber goodbyes,” Marquise Serenity says, reading her thoughts. She shoves the rest of the fabric into the poor decorator’s already overabundant arms and holds Lena’s hands in hers. Her face is bright as ever, that same smile plastered over dull thinning lips. But, buried underneath the solid mask of the greying woman’s once beautiful face, Lena knows she feels the same way. “It’s not as if you’re going to go away to die. You’re going to start a whole new life, a far better life than any you can have here. You’ve earned this, my sparrow. Now, make the best of it. This shall be our goodbye, and let us leave it at that.”

Lena gives the madame a silent nod.

“Good girl. Now, run along. I’m sure you’d like to see Amrynn and Viola before you leave on your little trip.”

Sure enough, both of them are already waiting in the dressing room when Lena steps in. Viola immediately runs over to throw her arms around Lena.

“Oh, Lena!” Viola cries. “I know I’m suppose to be happy, but I just can’t imagine you leaving us. Now, I’ll be all alone!”

Over Viola’s shoulder, Amrynn rolls her eyes. “It’s not like she’s leaving Novigrad forever. You do realize she’ll just be down the street from us, right?”

Viola finally lets go, her lips still trembling. “Still. It’ll not be the same anymore. It’s always been the three of us.”

“I promise I’ll visit after I come back from the trip,” Lena assures her. “You take care of yourself now, and send my regards to dear Rufus. Don’t let Amrynn boss you around too much.”

Amrynn scoffs. She is still perched on the vanity, apparently unmoving. “Good luck,” she mutters.

With the both of them unwilling to apologise, things between them have been left hanging after their fight over Geralt, but Lena is not about to go with bad blood. So, she walks over and gives Amrynn a hug, feeling her stiff body start to relax, and slowly, she feels her hands lift on her back to return the hug.

“Don’t miss me too much,” Lena tells her.

“Do you need a tissue, Amrynn?” Viola asks from behind.

“What?- No! Why would I need a tissue for?” Amrynn snaps, letting go to reach for her face, brushing it clean before Lena is facing her again.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were tearing up.”

“I was not!” Amrynn cheeks turn pink. “Anyway, I think this is as good a time as any to tell you both- the madame has decided to leave the Passiflora under my charge when the time comes.”

Lena cannot think of anyone here better suited for the job than Amrynn. Both she and Viola take turns congratulating their friend, and since there is still a bit of time left, they spend their last moments as a trio doing what all women do best: gossiping.

“You think the count will be able to perform in bed as well five years from now?” Viola giggles. “I mean, he certainly ain’t getting any younger.”

“Hah!” Amrynn slaps her lap. “I bet you Lena is counting the days till his cock shrivels up and falls off.”

“Oh, you’re crude, Amrynn,” Lena laughs. “But, to be honest, it was always a menial chore with him. He only ever takes up to five minutes, I don’t even have to look at him because he always prefers it from behind.” Then, she adds in a whisper, “Plus, there’s nothing much to feel at all really. It’s like having a gherkin in me.”

“A gherkin is bigger than Rufus’ pinkie,” says Amrynn.

Viola gasps. “Rufus has a cucumber, I’ll have you two know!”

“Now, you’re just exaggerating, Viola.”

“It’s true! Had me a sore throat the other day because he wanted it all the way in.”

“Did you manage it?”

“Well, I did. But, we had a bottle of wine each that night, and when I finally managed to get it all in...I started to gag, and… I puked... all this red stuff coupled with our dinner, got all over his-- cucumber.”

They burst out laughing, Amrynn clutching onto the vanity trying not to fall off, Lena clutching her stomach for survival, and for a moment, it seems like everything about the rest of the world is irrelevant and it is just three old friends being three old friends. If only it lasted a lifetime.

After they finally managed to calm themselves down, Amrynn cannot help but ask. “Are you still seeing that witcher Lena? Wait- before you say anything, I still don’t like it, but Viola’s right. If he makes you happy, I guess you can get the best of both worlds out of this. Don’t see a problem with being the count’s mistress and having witcher for dessert. Just be mindful to hide him well away from the count.”

Lena’s smile falters. She was praying they would not have thought to broach the subject. It has been three months since she last saw Geralt at the Chameleon with a backalley prostitute hanging from his arm. He has not visited her since, and it was better that way. She had convinced herself that he was not worth her tears, and after three nights of soaking her pillow wet, she vowed to forget about Geralt and her ridiculous obsession entirely. She even returned all her books about witchers to Marcus.

“You were right about him, Amrynn. I knew it was stupid from the start, but things just got out of hand. I was sidetracked, and I ended up blindsided,” she confesses.

“Oh, Lena,” Viola throws her arms around her again. “It’ll be alright. There will be other witchers. Rufus and I bumped into another one just the other day. A younger one, still has brown in his hair.”

“Thanks Viola, but one witcher is enough for me in this lifetime.”

“When you’re ready, try a dockhand,” suggests Amrynn. “According to Viola, they don’t seem to disappoint.”

Lena manages a small laugh. “I’ll remember to keep that in mind.”

They say their final goodbyes and Lena walks out of the Passiflora, finally free from it, only to jump right back into the cage of another marvelous edifice a street away in Gildorf. The count will be waiting for her at his villa, carriage ready to take her away on their trip, and when she returns, all her belongings will already have been transported to her own private quarters in his luxurious abode.

Wealthy townsfolk mingle around the town’s equally polished square, all bearing the privilege of whiling the morning away with slow strolling and banal pleasantries as they pass each other along the manicured street. Smart men linger in small groups, taking part in idle chit chat, and airy women show off their jewellery amidst discussions of the day’s juicy topic. This will be her life from now on- spending her days shopping for the finest antiques, visiting the finest dressmakers, attending countless of tea parties and social gatherings, and trying to fit into upper society.

Count Tybalt’s villa sits upon a large piece of valuable land west of Gildorf Market Square, residing within towering brick walls crawling with ivy that surround the residence like an impressive barricade, only falling away to an entrance blocked by a shining silver gate. A house as ostentatious as this only serves two purpose- to remind the rich of its’ owner’s status, and to remind the poor of a life out of reach.

On this morning, the gate is wide open. The count’s carriage is parked in front of it and servants are lining up to fill another smaller cart behind with trunks of luggage for their trip. Lena makes her way around the carriage to get a better look of the compound. She has never been through the gates before, but now that the countess is no longer alive, it is suddenly appropriate for the count to have his new mistress move in.

The servants take turns to greet her, addressing her by the title ‘mistress’. Obviously, they have already received word about the villa’s new occupant. Lena spies a couple of young girls, barely through their fifteenth year, whispering to each other as they sweep the front garden.

“A prostitute… From the brothel across the street…” she catches one of them saying. Their eyes widen when they realise Lena is watching them, and they scuttle away.

A butler rushes by with two servants in tow holding onto crates of wine. He stops at Lena and bows in greeting. “Pardon me mistress, the count is currently held up with some business. He begs your forgiveness and pleases you to stroll the garden until he arrives to commence the trip.”

Land within the Free City of Novigrad is near impossible to acquire and incredibly valuable. Count Tybalt’s garden may not span even a quarter of the Vegelbud Residence’s courtyard, but the size of it could still fit two tall slat houses, enough to accommodate six small families from The Bits. The Passiflora needs a beautiful facade to attract business, but to waste such precious land on grass and flowers in a home is yet another proclamation of how the rich indulge themselves with meaningless excess. Crowns certainly do not matter all that much to the count.

Red and white rose bushes bloom upon fresh green grass, and a wispy willow whispers from a corner, inviting lazy days underneath its dancing leaves, watching exotic fishes the colour of silver and burnt orange swim in a little pond beside. The air is crisper in here, filling her nose with the faint scent of morning dew. Only the rich can afford paradise before they die.

Her velvet slippers glide through the pillowy grass and Lena finds herself looking upon a square patch lined with white rocks. Within grows an abundance of herbs- Arenarias, Blowballs, Celandines, Moleyarrows, Rangorins- both common and rare, all ready for plucking.

“I had the gardeners install this just the other day.” Lena turns to find Count Tybalt approaching her with a proud grin. “It is yours,” he continues. “To do as you please. I remember you envying Alfred Vegelbud’s herb garden during the derby.”

Lena’s hand reaches for her mouth. “I’m lost for words. It’s beautiful!”

“Take this as a welcome gift, a simple gesture of my generosity to my mistress,” he says and takes hold of her hand to kiss it with wrinkled lips. “I was going to give you a short tour of the interiors, but an unwanted circumstance held me up, and time is short, so it will have to wait until we return.”

“Unwanted?” Lena asks.

The count clicks his tongue. “You may be the new lady of this house, but it is best for women not to inquisite into the affairs of men. Come now, Moldavie Residence is a fair distance away from the city. We shall want to arrive before the party begins.”

As they make their way back to the gates, Lena spots a vaguely familiar face in between two big, burly men. A man.

“You’re all liars!” he is shouting. “Let go of me! How can she be dead? Liars! Liars!”

It takes her awhile, and then something clicks in her head. It is the ashen-haired stableboy from the Vegelbud Residence, the one she lied to about buying a horse. He seems to have gotten himself into some kind of trouble because the count’s bodyguards are almost dragging him out by his feet.

The count puts an arm out to block her from taking a step further. “Best we stay here until they dispose of him. The poor loon came by this morning demanding coin off the late countess. Went on a deranged rampage about something or the other. Wasted half my morning, and a perfectly good breakfast.”

Curiosity gets the better of her, and Lena is about to try her luck with a couple more questions when out of nowhere, she spots another familiar face coming towards them. This time, all too familiar. The sight of a white head of hair and two gleaming pommels behind his back is like a punch to her guts.

Geralt is looking right at her as he approaches them, and does not take his eyes off her even as he reaches to a stop right in front of her. He is still the same- big, strong, and out of place. Lena feels her stomach twist into knots. Suddenly, it is hard to breathe.

“My darling, you are familiar with the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. We met him briefly at the Vegelbud’s annual derby earlier this year. He was the one who won,” Count Tybalt proceeds to explain, oblivious to Lena’s gawking. “Count Kurt Dysart commissioned his help to purge a monster inhabiting Moldavie Residence not long ago. I’ve asked him to act as our guard for the journey there. Who knows what danger might be lurking along the way. I’ve paid Geralt here a handsomes sum to make our journey pleasant and free from any obstructions... Are you alright, my darling? You look pale.”

Lena jumps. “What- No! Just a little surprised,” she casts a furtive glance at Geralt. “Do we really need him following us? I think we’ll be fine with a regular armsman.”

Count Tybalt chuckles as if she had made a silly comment. “Don’t be frightened by the witcher. He is not here to hurt you. You’ll keep me and my darling mistress safe, won’t you Geralt?”

Geralt’s lifts a brow. “Will do my best to keep you and your... _mistress_ safe,” he says, rolling the particular word around his tongue, as if slowly registering its meaning.

“Say, didn’t I once catch you reading a book about witchers, my darling?” Count Tybalt cannot resist adding. “I bet my dearest here could pick her tiny brain to tell you a thing or two about yourself, Geralt.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips flicks upwards ever so slightly. “I’ll bet it’s more than a couple.”

At this point, Lena wishes she had burned the bloody book. There is not much more she can do or say to change anything now. Geralt will be following them, whether she likes it or not. But, what is most infuriating is that, now in his presence, she realises she is still mad at him even after three months. In silence, she plasters a genial smile on her face and climbs into the carriage without another look at the witcher.

 

 

 

Moldavie Residence is located three hours east of Novigrad’s Oxenfurt Gate. Inside the carriage, Lena is on her best behaviour. She is so well versed with the ways of conducting herself around the count to gain favour, she could do it in her sleep. Which is why, throughout this whole time, while she listens with feigned interest as the count retells an old story for the hundredth time, as she touches his arm from time to time, laughs at all his jokes, and speaks at all the appropriate moments, her mind cannot help but divert itself to the man on the horse in front of their carriage.

She guesses they are about halfway through their journey. It has been some time now. She is growing tired of eating cherries off the count’s fingers.

“This party will be your introduction into high society,” the count is telling her. “As my mistress, you will no longer have to endure the etiquettes administered to those who bear the station of lower class, but instead will be accepted, if not tolerated, as a proper lady of decent ranking.”

“That is wonderful, dear count.”

“And so it should be. No normal woman of your station would in the right mind dare dream of securing a man of phenomenal endowment such as myself, let alone associate herself with respectable society. But you, my darling, you are special. Your wealth is in your beauty, and it will more than make up for what you lack in lineage.”

“Because of you, I am lucky, dear count.”

“From here on out, you shall by no means bear or instigate anymore association between yourself and the Passiflora. That includes its inhabitants.”

Lena’s mind snaps back to attention. “You mean I can’t see my friends anymore?”

“Of course not, silly girl,” Count Tybalt chuckles. “We wouldn’t want anyone thinking you are still some harlot. You should be mixing with women of title similar to or higher than yours as a mistress.”

The carriage gives an unexpected lurch, almost propelling the both of them from their seats. The bowl of cherries tumble onto the carriage floor. They hear the horses outside, and the carriage comes to an abrupt halt.

“What is the problem here?” Count Tybalt pokes his head out of the window. “Why have we stopped?”

However, Lena is already pushing the carriage door to get out. Some fresh air and open spaces will do her good if she is going to tolerate the second leg of the journey with the count as her only company. Velen’s blue skies greet her from above as she helps herself down onto dirt road. On tone side grows thick underbrush, panning deep into a dark green forest. Parallel to it stretches a vast, empty grassland, barren and dry. It had not occurred to Lena to feel so glad now that she is no longer in Novigrad. The count is calling for her to go back inside, but she pretends she does not hear him and walks up front.

Geralt is on one knee inspecting the obstruction, which turns out to be an abandoned wagon in the middle of the road. The servants from the cart behind have also descended to inspect the curiosity. The wagon is completely destroyed, its contents- textiles and medicinal paraphernalia- left to the mercy of nature.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Move the damn thing!” The count has finally decided to leave his carriage and is now instructing his servants. “Witcher, if you help them, we’ll be able to get going quicker.”

But, Geralt is strangely silent.

“What’s wrong, Geralt?” Lena asks, sensing his discomfort.

When he does not reply, she feels the hairs on her back start to stand up.

Then, Geralt stands up and faces them, his hand already reaching for his back. “Everybody back into the carriage. Now!”

“Tell me what is going on,” Count Tybalt demands. The servants are still standing around, clueless.

“Geralt behind you!” Lena screams.

He already knew. His sword rushes out, and is whirling in mid air, slicing through the head of a hideous creature jumping out of the forest. When the decapitated head rolls on the ground, lifeless, everyone stares at it in frozen terror. No one makes a sound. For a moment, it seems like it is all over, and then, from all around, high pitched screeches pierce through the silence.

A cloud of screams erupt, and then it is pandemonium. More of the sinister things are popping out of the ground like daisies, grabbing servants by the legs and dragging them away into the forest, screaming for dear life. The rest left standing are running around like headless chickens, some making towards the grassland.

But, Lena cannot feel her legs. It is like she has been put under a trance. Her eyes are wide, staring at these revolting, two-legged creatures swarm over them like bees, digging their claws into victim after victim. One has already spotted her and is rushing at full speed, claws ready. Lena opens her mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. In front, Geralt is fending off three at one go.

She opens her mouth to scream again. Nothing. There is nobody to save her. She is going to die. Her eyes slam shut and her shoulders hunch up.

Something big and hard slams into her, throwing her off balance, her body shoved onto the ground. She braces herself for sharp teeth to dig into her flesh. A moment. Two. Still nothing.

“Get up!” a deep voice shouts. “Fuck- Lena get up!”

Her eyes blink open. The sun is flickering like a dancing candle, and Geralt’s back is towering over her. The stout, red-eyed monsters are coming at him from every angle. Something solid bumps her from behind. Her head swivels to see the wheel of the count’s carriage. Geralt has backed her up against it.

“In the carriage now!” Geralt shouts again as blackened blood splatters onto the ground.

His voice registers in her head, and Lena scrambles to her knees, hands reaching for the handle of the carriage door. She tugs at it but it will not budge. She tugs again, and again, and again, but the doors will not give way.

“It won’t open!” she cries.

Geralt is too preoccupied to answer her. She turns back, and a gust of heat hits her like a giant wave. Flames have appeared out of thin air, setting the vile creatures ablaze. The gleam of a silver sword cuts through the smoke. Then, another wave of flames spews out of Geralt’s open palm.

“Run for the fields,” he tells her. “Do it, now.”

“I can’t… I can’t feel my legs.”

He strikes, piercing the blade into grey flesh. One creature lets out a shrill screech. Geralt jumps back in front of her and thrusts an arm out. A huge force vibrates through the air like a giant shield, throwing a flock of the monsters backwards and onto the ground like dropping flies. A hand grabs her arm, and Geralt is pulling Lena, running for the open field.

There is pounding in her eardrums. She hears her own heavy breath, panting as she struggles to keep up with him. A blur of white, green and blue rocks up and down in her vision. Behind, the dreadful high-pitched screeches grow louder.

Her legs are starting to weaken. “We won’t make it!”

From a distance, a black dot is heading straight for them at incredible speed. A horse, thundering through the grass, comes galloping into sight. Geralt whistles and it comes to a halt, rearing its hooves in front of them.

“Whoa there, Roach! Steady... That's it.” Geralt takes hold of its reins. He hoists himself up and turns to Lena, holding out a hand, “Get on. Quick.”

The next moment, she is on the saddle hugging him from behind. Geralt is about to crack the reigns when they catch a faint cry calling out in the distance.

“Help! Someone help me!”

Back on the road, both Lena and Geralt spot a man resembling Count Tybalt. The carriage door is wide open and he has somehow managed to climb onto its roof. A small army of those horrible monsters surround him and are trying to topple the carriage over. The count is bent on all fours, clutching onto the sides of the roof for dear life. For the briefest of second, Lena has a thought to just leave the count to his fate. But, Geralt is already directing his horse back to where they came from.

Another wave of extraordinary force bursts out of Geralt’s palm, flinging the creatures back. He draws out his bloodied silver sword and swipes it across two grey heads as they gallop by. Their arrival has caused a distraction, and the group of monsters abandon the carriage, diverting their attention at them instead. Geralt’s horse kicks up its front legs, squealing in fear.

“Stay on the horse,” Geralt orders, and then he leaps off.

Lena fumbles for the reins. “But I don’t know how to ride-”

“Just go!”

Without thinking, she cracks the reins and the horse canters away, throwing her off balance. Her fingers curl around the leather restrains as if it is going to snap and send her flying.

“Slow down!” she shouts, but it just goes faster.

She whips her head back. Among the dead bodies of servants littering the ground, she spots Geralt’s figure surrounded by all those things. Those creatures. She knows all too well what they are. There are too many of them. He will not be able to fight them off alone.

Her legs hits against something on the side of the saddle. She looks down and sees a saddle bag.

“Stop!” she yells at the horse. “Bloody hell, will you stop!”

Then, she remembers how Geralt did it. Quickly, she yanks at the reins, pulling them back. The horse kicks up, and finally slows to a stop.

“We’ve got to go back,” she tells it, and tries to maneuver it around with the weight of her body.

By a stroke of luck, it works. She is heading back to Geralt. Lena takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for what she is about to do next. Her heart pounds like the beating of a thousand drums. Heaven only knows if her plan is going to work, if it is even a plan. She only hopes she can get her legs to work this time round.

She yanks at the reins again to stop the horse, and drops herself to the ground with a small yelp. Picking herself up, she scrambles for the saddlebag, rummaging through it for what she hopes is there. She pulls out a bottle filled with red liquid, and searches the bag again, flinging things out.

There it is. She pulls out a blue metallic orb, grabs the red liquid and sprints towards Geralt.

He has just sliced one of them right down the middle. “I thought I told you to-”

“Catch!” she yells, and flings the orb at him.

It lands in his grasp, and in one swift motion, he swerves around and hurls it at the group of monsters. The ground thunders, erupting into a thick cloud of white smoke. Lena opens her eyes and finds herself ducked down on the dirt road. She gets up and searches for Geralt in a panic. A sigh escapes her lips when she sees him coming out of the thinning smoke.

“Run!” he is shouting at her.

Her eyes widen. She turns to her side and sees a creature pouncing. A bloodcurdling scream fills the air, and she realises it is hers. Her hand is still gripping onto something. She looks down and sees the bottle of red liquid. Helpless, she throws it at the incoming beast. The bottle cracks, drenching it with the liquid. Nothing happens. It is still charging at her.

Then, a large figure swoops in front of her. A screech. Something grey falls onto the ground with a loud thud. Then, she hears his voice.

“You can open your eyes now. That’s the last of them,” Geralt is saying. He is bent on one knee, looking at her. Dark, dirty blood is splattered across his face, tainting his white hair. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no. I don’t think so.” She lets him help her up. “Just a few scratches.”

The perfectly coiffed bun on her head is now deflated. Her dress is in a right mess. She brushes away the hair stuck on her face and starts to pat the dirt off her skirt. Littered across the road are dead, decapitated monsters, limp and lifeless. A severed arm is still writhing like a scorching worm, making her cringe.

“So… Ogroid oil, huh? That’s another way to use it.”

“Oh, shut up. I gave you the right bomb, didn’t I? It was all I had left. How was I supposed to know it wouldn’t work.”

“Got to apply it to a sword first.”

“I don’t think I ever want to use it again,” she tells him. “I never want to see those things again.”

“Thought you liked monsters.”

“Not Nekkers.” She watches him clean his sword and sheathe it behind his broad back. “How many survivors do we have?”

“All the servants here are dead. The rest must have run off. Doubt they’re coming back.”

“And the count?”

“Still on top of the carriage. Don’t think he knows it’s over.”

He is standing so close to her, she can smell the blood off him. The white beard covering his face has grown out, and so has his hair which he has tied back into a half ponytail, letting the rest fall to where his shoulders begin. It is then Lena realises how much she has missed him. His deep, raspy voice, his abnormal size, his uncanny eyes, his rough hands… touching her.

“Sure you’re alright?” he asks again. “I can hear your pulse. It’s fast. Your breath is short.”

“Yes...” She takes a step closer, so close she can feel the heat of him on her skin. “But not because of that.”

And then she kisses him. Without thought, without fear, surprising him, but only for a moment. As her lips collide with his, the acrid stench of monster blood fills her nostrils like an invasion. But, his mouth. _Oh_ , his mouth. It moves like it belongs with hers, his tongue circling in. Wet. Hot.

She closes her eyes, letting him explore her, letting him pull her in like waves drawn to shore, melting into the rocks of his armoured body. For the first time, she tastes him, and he is wonderful. He does not let go, beckoning her to fall deeper into his arms.

“Helloooo…?” a voice calls out, tearing their mouths apart.

They look over to the carriage some distance away and see the count poking his head over the top.

“Is anybody out there?” he calls again. “I will need some help getting down.”

Geralt’s gaze turns back to her. His is still clutching her waist, unwilling to let go just yet. “Should we let him wait?”

“We shouldn’t,” she smiles, shaking her head. “Anyway, I think he just saw us. Look.”

The count is now flailing his hands in the air, waving for their attention. “Lena, my darling. Thanks heavens you’re alive! And Geralt too. It’s a miracle! Now be a dear and help your dear count down from here, will you? You can get to moving the wagon, witcher.”

“You think he-”

“Nope.”

“Good, because I’d like to continue this later.”

“We’ll see.”  
  
And together, they stroll back to their designated lives.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I must thank all of you for the wonderful and encouraging comments! It is such a phenomenal privilege to read each and every one of them. I always feel so much more motivated to continue writing and push myself to provide a better reading experience for all of you; as much as my writing capability will allow me to. As the story is expanding, I hope all of you are enjoying things so far, and I do hope you will continue to enjoy the story in the coming chapters. xx


	6. Naked Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are best left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for the hiatus. I must admit that I left the story untouched for much longer than I had planned. Thank You for all the wonderful and encouraging comments in the previous chapter and the requests to soldier on with the story. I promise there will be an ending :D 
> 
> Alrightee then, don't want to keep you any further. I hope you enjoy what is to come in this chapter! It's a long one. Happy reading! xx

This is not how Count Tybalt imagined their arrival to be. Exhausted and covered in the aftermath of war, they trot up the path leading to a quaint stone manor standing alone in the middle of nowhere, old and proud. Lena sits behind the count on the last surviving carriage horse, while Geralt leads the way on Roach with some of the luggages. In the end, there was no point in moving the wagon, there were not enough horses to draw the carriage anyway. Now, some hours late and ridden with sweat from the midday sun, Count Tybalt has left his good spirits behind with the dead bodies of his servants and is in the kind of mood similar to a gambler losing at gwent by one point.

As the trot down the dirt path, a structure starts to take form, rising in the distance, standing proud and alone inside the borders of its stone fence. The place is nothing short of a dream, with a view of sunflower seas stretching to above and beyond, a medallion sun and skies of blue silk embroidered with cotton clouds. Moldavie Residence itself looks like it was built for a romance novel. Lena can only imagine how delightful life must be to live in such a marvelous old building far away from a walled up city.

Roach comes to a halt, and Geralt hops down, his face impassive to the estate’s charm as if it were no more alluring than a traveller’s tent. “Should’ve seen this place the first time round.”

“Doesn’t seem too extraordinary,” the count remarks with a sour note. “Dysart must be pretty tight around the pockets if all he can afford is this wreck as a summer villa. I bet it’s because of his recent venture into the art business. He should have stuck to expanding his family’s sugar empire.”

Geralt offers her his hand, and as she comes down, her front sliding against the armour of his chest, Lena tries not to think about where her lips had been earlier.

Guests are milling around the grounds of the residence. They seem to pay no mind to the humid air. Colourful ladies of leisure mingle with bright feather fans fluttering about their faces while the men sip their wine from crystal goblets. A hush grips the crowd, and Lena realises that everyone has their eyes set on the witcher.

“Ah, Tybalt. You’re late,” an elderly man not unlike the count himself strides up to greet them. He is impeccably dressed, complete with a manner of speech bearing subtle notes of arrogance typical to noblemen in general. “My, you look a state! I don’t recall the dress code being ‘regal dockhand’,” he chuckles at his own joke.

Count Tybalt’s eye twitches. “My apologies, Dysart. We encountered an attack by monsters on the road. My servants were killed in the process. As a result, we were forced to leave the carriage behind.”

“How unfortunate!” Count Kurt Dysart pauses just for a moment to seem as if he cared. “Let’s not dwell on it, shall we? I already have the rooms ready for you and this ravishing lady of yours.” He flashes Lena with an idea of a disarming smile, his droopy eyes wandering to the region below her neck. “My, my Tybalt, how ever did you manage to find such a treasure?”

The tip of Count Tybalt’s nose rises higher. “If I told you Dysart, it wouldn’t be so much as a treasure than common grain.”

“Well, I’m sure the both of you will want to freshen up first before joining in the festivities. We shall resume formalities after your lady is appropriate. Ah, Geralt! I see you took up Tybalt’s offer. Tybalt, you must remember to thank me later for recommending his services. You might not have been so lucky with those monsters otherwise. Geralt here has done some quick work with that creature in my basement. What’s it called again?”

“Therazane. Earth Elemental.”

“Mmm… yes. Whatever that is, I’m just glad it’s dead. Please, join in the festivities, I insist. You may take to bed in the barn at the end of the day.”

Geralt mumbles a reply and glances at Lena before disappearing. Lena scoffs silently. If he thinks she is going to make an excuse like she did at the Vegelbud Estate, he is gravely mistaken.

Count Dysart leads the way into the manor, which looks just like the home of every other proud nobleman in Novigrad, opulent and ostentatious. Somehow, Dysart has managed to occupy each available empty wall and floor space with intricate sculptures and works of art Lena is sure Marcus will salivate over. A servant escorts them to the guest quarters, and Lena almost breaths a sigh of relief when they are shown two separate doors. It seems Kurt Dysart likes to keep things traditional and she is only too happy to oblige.

Her room is smaller than Count Tybalt’s, as expected, but not much simpler. A young servant girl is already waiting for her beside her luggage. Over at the corner, a bath has been drawn. The warm water wraps her body like a welcome blanket. The bath is big enough to fit more than one. Lena refuses to imagine who she wants in here with her. As the servant girl sponges her body with fragrant lather, she tries to make small talk but Lena is in no mood for any sort of conversation. As she plays with the bubbles, her mind starts to wander off to what happened earlier this morning with the witcher, and then she remember the Nekkers, those horrible grey, ghoulish creatures. She shudders, her hand slipping from the edge of the bath, splashing into the milky water. Her knees draw closer to her chest, remembering they could not move when the creatures attacked. But while she was on the ground, when one of them was about to claw into her, there was a moment, just a brief moment, when a bright yellow light recalled itself from the depths of her memory; and there was a woman with the sweetest scent looking down upon her, telling her not to cry, not to fear, to go to sleep…

“Milady?”

She jolts. The servant girl has finished washing her, and is drying her hands. “Which gown d’you please me to prepare, milady?”

The blurry image swirls away with the melting lather.

“Yes, the blue one, thank you,” Lena replies and climbs out of the bath and into the silk robe laid out for her.

The afternoon sun is sinking low by the time she is finally presentable. Lena slips her feet into a pair of silver velvet slippers and stands up from the vanity. She is dressed in a gown the likes of fairy dust and silvery blue thread; her hair is adorned with a string of pearls, her lips painted a dusty pink; gold and sapphire ornaments dangle from her ears and around the slender neck she was gifted with.

“You look a paintin’, milady,” says the servant girl.

Lena returns a faint smile. She must think her pretentious. If she only knew she is waiting on a prostitute, she will have a fit.

The smile stays on when Count Tybalt arrives to retrieve her, the corners of her upturned lips nailed high to either side of her cheeks. She lets him kiss her, then accepts his arm to be escorted  down the winding grand staircase to the party. The count wastes no time in making her introductions. Lena finds herself whisked into the thick of powdered faces and golden eyeglasses; women with hair like beehives, heavily perfumed, scan her from head to toe while their bright white teeth grin under false pretenses. Their overbearing scent mingles consciously with the sharp tobacco puffing out of lacquered pipes held by equal men who look upon her like they are marvelling at a treasure inside a glass case, much to the delight of Count Tybalt, who shamelessly dangles her youth to no end.

Count Kurt Dysart, in particular, has taken it upon him to remain at her side at all times. He has already convinced himself of her keen eye for art, and Lena is forced to spend a considerable amount of time clueless and nodding as he takes her on a tour of every single priceless relic that decorates his home.

“They say it is not art that inspires life, but life that inspires art. Do you not agree?” Count Kurt Dysart turns his chin towards her. “What do you think of it?”

They are standing in front of a sculpture of a naked woman with no mouth, hands or legs. Lena cocks her head to one side, pretending to analyse it. A small golden plaque reads, ‘ _Giann'Lorenzo - "Rape of Elirena (Aelrinenn)"’._ All she can make of it is that the woman is elven from the shape of her ears, and that her marble body is twisted in a very uncompromising position. She racks her brain to think of all the lessons in art that Marcus insisted instilling in her.

“I’ve read that a lot of ancient sites are still littered across Velen. Mostly destroyed, stripped by vandals or home to wandering beasts, like wraiths for example. They’re particularly attracted to-”

Count Tybalt clears his throat. “Yes, I’m sure it’s fascinating my darling, but we don’t want to bore Count Dysart here with the finer details hmmm?”

But the kind of grin plastered on Kurt Dysart’s face suggests that Lena can say anything she wants and it still will not faze him. She considers tipping her wine over his head to see if she can get away with it. The only person stopping her is Count Tybalt. She does not like it when he is angry.

“Such a relic must have come at a cost. How much did you part with, Dysart?” Count Tybalt inquires.

“Nothing more than 300 crowns.”

“But that is not a cost at all! I may think of getting one myself. It will go well in the garden.”

Dysart chuckles. “Mmm yes… one can hardly call it a bargain. Though, you’ll never be able to get it at a price like this at the auction house. Borsodi is nothing but a glorified cut-throat. But, I have other means of acquiring such rare artifacts. If your conscience allows for it, I can put you in contact with my procurer. Bear in mind that they do acquire these things by means of force. Some blood may be shed, and possibly the defacing of ancient sites.”

“How exciting! I’ve never had dealings with bandits.” Count Tybalt’s eyes shine like a boy presented with a new toy. “What say you, my darling? Would you like such a piece of work as a centerpiece in your new herb garden?”

Her smile is tight. “If you think it worthy, your judgement is best, dear count.”

The idea of the count spending three hundred crowns to hammer into dirt and soil is no strange thing. He has spent far more on wasted pleasures. Once, while they were strolling the shops around Gildorf, Lena had stopped to admire a beautiful sapphire necklace on display. The next day, a lacquered box arrived for her at the Passiflora with the same necklace inside. Marcus makes a thousand crowns on a good month from hawking publications at the Books & Scrolls. At the Passiflora, the going rate is forty crowns for each courtesan; Lena’s service demands slightly more, but fifty percent of their earnings go to Marquise Serenity and the maintenance of the establishment; the girls who work the docks at night only charge ten crowns. Geralt once told her that it takes three monster contracts in Velen to make that kind of coin, sometimes even more when the villagers cannot afford his asking price.

The afternoon stretches out in a long and tiresome order. It is not that Lena does not adore parties. She does; sampling delectable pâtés, and sipping the best wines from Toussaint while her ears are treated to the soft crooning of lutes; it is the company she does not enjoy. She finds herself trapped in a circle of finely dressed ladies, the wives and daughters of noblemen and wealthy merchants. The subjects of conversation seem to revolve only around gossip about other nobles, complaints about servants, and the latest fashion.

“... Boussy and Anaïs are not the baron’s, but King Foltest’s…”

“... it’s that new kitchen maid, I swear it! Counted two missing frocks in the last twenty days…”

“... slippers made of giant centipede skin. I’ve heard it’s all the rage in Toussaint…”

Lena stuffs a pâté in her mouth to stifle a yawn. Her gaze wanders over to the french doors overlooking the garden. A prominent white head of hair grabs her attention. The witcher is leaning against a low wall of stones, arms and legs crossed. He remains stone still, as if in deep meditation. Her gaze narrows on his face, so collected, so calm, and she recalls the kiss they shared, like it just happened. Her grip tightens around the stem of her goblet. She can still smell the acrid monster blood dripping from his face, taste the warmth of his mouth, their depraved embrace, wanting and whole. It never left her mind, not while she was dancing with the count, and not even when she saw Count Kurt Dysart’s impressive library.  

A pair of yellow eyes flick open, piercing straight into hers. A chunk of pâté sticks in her throat. She starts to choke, and quickly directs her attention back to the ladies who are staring at her as if waiting for some kind of explanation. They seem to want something from her.

“So, tell us!” demands a woman whose grey hair is shaped like a beehive.

“Excuse me?”

“Where did you get them from?”

It takes another moment for Lena to realise they meant the pearls in her hair. “It was a gift from the count.”

Another lady wearing a tight spring of curls tuts. “My dear, she means which sea did the pearls come from.”

“Umm… I think he mentioned something about Skellige.”

The ladies gasp, their eyes widening, gawking at her head with newfound meaning.

“Oh, how lucky! They must cost a fortune!...”

“No stranger to good taste, that Count Tybalt...”

“Yes, but have you heard of black pearls? I’ve heard they’re are the new white pearls...”

The women start to question her about the rest of her attire- which dressmaker made her gown? Did the same one make her slippers? If she uses peacock droppings on her face (“they reverse the process of aging, did you know that?”); where does she get her hair done? Does she have a lady’s maid? She must get one, they are ever so useful.

Either they are trying to be nice or are trying to pry some sort of scandal out of her. All the same, being tossed into the Skellige ocean is better than this. Deciding that she has had enough, Lena gulps down her wine, waits for a little longer, then casually lets the goblet fall from her hand. The silver clashes onto the floor. A sharp ring echoes. The women fall silent.

“Oh dear!” Lena gasps, swaying a little. “I-I think I’m not feeling too well… please, excuse me… I think I need some fresh air.”

Before anyone can get a word in, she turns on her heels and makes a beeline towards the garden’s open doors. The late air fills her lungs as she steps out. A lush garden welcomes her with silent winds and a rush of green. Her feet follow the gravel path, winding down along a line of thriving rose bushes. She catches the faint scent of white myrtle lingering around; one never gets these kind of smells in Novigrad. The path turns a corner where she finds an abundance of flourishing white myrtle bushes. She plucks a delicate white flower and spins it between her fingers, recounting all the potions which require its petals. She wonders if she could make a living as a herbalist after the count expires.

A strange inkling creeps up her spine. Someone is watching her. She turns around and jumps at the sight of the witcher. His ponytail has turned messy from the wind, the scar on his face dulled by the shadows of the day and just now does she notice that he no longer smells of blood.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

“Well, you always do.”

He gives her a quizzical brow, but otherwise does not press the matter. “Don’t like the party? Looked like you were having fun back there.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I do.”

“This isn’t the Vegelbud derby, Geralt. I’m not disappearing with you.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

She knows he is lying.

She follows his gaze to a bench tucked away in a corner. His eyes dart back to her, gesturing towards it. The thought of returning to the party is not something she is willing to consider, and in truth, she much rather be with him. They sit side by side in silence. Out in Velen, the sky seems a whole lot bigger, like a painting bathed in shades of purple and orange. Behind them grows fields of sunflowers, tall and strong, like soldiers in tight formation.

Lena straightens her back, both hands resting on her lap. “I realised I forgot to thank you for what happened today on the road.”

“Part of the job,” he says.

“Well… thank you.”

“The kiss was thanks enough.”

“Oh right, that…” She bites her lip, looking away, and starts to play with her fingers. Come to think of it, that was a move made out of sheer craving. However, now that she has tasted him, she can only want for more. “I don’t really know what came over me. I’ve never kissed like that before.”

Geralt does not even bat an eye. “What about the count?”

“A task I’m meant to endure.”

“Mistress…” he says, rolling the word around his tongue like a fine vintage wine. She hates the way he says it. “Lucky you.”

She avoids his gaze. “It’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Doesn’t hurt to gloat once in awhile.”

Lena studies her pretty velvet slippers- a gorgeous pair of spun silver dotted with tiny circular rubies. She remembers the day Count Tybalt gave them to her. It was one of her first few presents from him and she had been ecstatic. Amrynn and Viola were mad with jealousy.

“I’ve always liked dressing up…” she says. “All those clothes and jewellery, I can’t imagine how hard life must be for a woman without them. Then again, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. I’ve too many jewels to know what to do with them.”

“Looking at you now with your dress and pearls. You don’t sound too happy.”

“Women admire me, but they don’t know that the things given to me are not for free. Throughout my whole life, everything has been decided for me. Small things- from the way I sit, the way I eat, to the way I speak. Then, there’s the bigger things. I always wonder if it is going to be this way forever.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“How? It’s not like I can just run away and live off the land. That’s unthinkable! Where will I go? I’m comfortable now, and for someone like me, comfort comes at a price.”

“All I’m saying is you have a choice.”

“Not everyone is like you, Geralt. I’m not like you.”

“Look, you do what you want. Not my place to tell you what to do.”

A couple strolls by. The lady glances over, measuring Lena from top to toe, trying to decide if it is still too early to regard Count Tybalt’s new mistress. Then again, the witcher’s presence might have something to do with her reluctance. In the end, they exchange brief nods and she carries on with the gentleman on her arm.

“Why did you do it?”

Geralt’s cat-like eyes focus on her, sucking her into its deep citrine pools like a power she cannot fight. They hold so little emotion, almost desolate, that sometimes she resorts to reading him by the way the weather-beaten skin around his eyes rise and fall. Somehow, she is captivated all the same. This time, it is his eyebrows, rising nonchalantly, feigning ignorance. “Do what?”

“That night… you wanted me to see you like that, parading that harlot around. I’m not dumb. You did that on purpose. Why?”

His answer came almost immediately, as if he had anticipated it and had already prepared a reply. “Think you know why.”

“I’d like you to say it.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Damn it, Geralt! Just bloody say it!”

She stares at him. Maybe, just maybe, if she glares long enough, and hard enough, she will be able to coax some sort of reaction out of him.

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry! You know so many things about me, and I know nothing about you. Yet, we’ve slept together more than a hundred times, and the longest sentence you’ve ever uttered in all this time was when you were giving me commands in bed! You know, sometimes I feel like you think I’m just some object. Something for you to use whenever you like, no explanations needed. Just tell me why you did it, that’s all I’m asking.”

“You like it when I give you commands.”

Something stirs inside her. She shakes it off. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“When we return, I’m leaving for Skellige.”

It was like a punch to her gut. It is still incredible to her how he manages to keep his voice devoid of emotion even at a time like this. A gust of wind brings with it the evening chill and a heavy silence, biting deep into her skin. Skellige is oceans away. Travelling there alone will take months, which means he will be there for at least a couple of years.

“It’s important,” he adds, as if that explains everything.

Years. Will he even remember her after that? When all that time has gone by? She doubts he has concerned himself with those thoughts. After all, she is most likely just an obscure stitch in the great big tapestry of his life.

“Is it because of someone?” she asks.

He nods.

“Is it Triss?”

Silence. Not even a hint, not even a clue to his wonder as to why she knows that name. The man is as thick as a barricade.

“Dandelion mentioned her name that night,” she explains, relieving his curiosity.

“No, not her.”

“Your friend Zoltan mentioned that I look like her. Is that true? Do I remind you of her? Is that why you kept coming back?”

The once purple and orange shades above start to descend to dark shadows of blue. Geralt deep fixation on it tells her he is not even looking at it. The wind grows stronger, ruffling the leaves, sending tiny shivers through her body. Some warmth is a good idea, but the only warmth out here is with the bad idea sitting next to her.

He finally speaks. “At first, yes. But after a couple of times, not so much. You shouldn’t get too attached. I’m not really the sort you’d want to commit to.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Just don’t want you having anymore expectations.”

Something inside her breaks. He did not need to say anything more for her to understand. _Expectations?_ He did not seem to mind her expectations while he was fucking her. She tilts her head up and takes a deep breath. A dull ache presses deep inside her. She knows what kind of pain it is. It is the kind she thought she would never have to face. She suddenly wishes she had put on something warmer. It might have helped her think better. Now, she’s gone and made a fool of herself yet again.

Her lips start to quiver. “How could you…”

“Didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

“Don’t lie to me, Geralt. You knew what you were doing.”

Geralt looks at her with the same taciturn expression, but says nothing.

“Am I nothing to you?”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, but I’m not enough…”

He was always a man of little words, but never lost for words. She can already see him recoiling from her, the gap between them growing wider. She wants to scream, wants to hit him. Anything to not feel the way she does. Anything to not know that she has fallen in love with the witcher.

Scraping up every last scattered remains of her pride, she forces herself to look at him. “It’s funny the way things turn out. I’m no fool not to know that men often find me quite irresistible. But now, it seems that the only man I wish to think me so, in fact, does not.”

He blinks. A moment goes by.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

She almost believed him. The terrible thing is she wants to.

“Will I ever see you again?” The slight tremble in her voice gives her away.

“Can’t promise anything.”

“Yes... I guessed as much. How silly of me to ask. Well, that’s that then. I can only hope you don’t think me impetuous.” She wants to say ‘desperate’, but thought better.

She moves to stand up. Time to go.

Before her velvet slippers can take another step, a sudden force envelopes her waist, pulling her back. Her eyes grow wide as she finds herself on his lap, the tip of her nose only a breath away from his.

“No!” She pushes him back. “What do you take me for?”

“Slap me.”

“What?”

“Go on, slap me. I deserve it.”

She gapes at him. Then, without thinking, her palm lands a tight smack across his face. Her eyes widen, realising what she had just done.

Geralt’s head slowly turns back to her. “Better now?”

She nods.

“Good. Now, listen to me.” He grabs her chin, drawing her closer. “You are beautiful.”

His mouth crashes onto her. Everything falls away. Her eyes fall to a close. She inhales the raw scent of him. She cannot help but feel him once again. The heat of his tongue, his skin, his fingers sliding down her chest, digging into her hip.

At last, she understands. This is how they are suppose to be. This is how they will be. He is the wildfire in her scripted life; sudden, raging. He will always be the adventure she is afraid to lose.

Their mouths tear away. His hand moves to sweep her hair back, exposing the cold, naked surface of her neck. He dips, marking a burning trail down to her collarbone. Her head tips back-

“Ahem…” A cough propels them apart. They snap up to find Count Tybalt, arms crossed, with a rather unpleasant expression on his face.

Lena scrambles to her feet. “Dear count, I… I wasn’t feeling well, and Geralt here, err… he-”

Count Tybalt’s tone is as icy as death itself. “Lady Fabula told me you were out here. She advised I ought take a stroll. Says you look rather unwell. Now I see what she meant.”

“I can explain, dear count. Geralt only meant to help me-”

“It’s my fault,” Geralt cuts in, standing up. “Forced myself on her.”

Lena glares at him, imploring him to stop, but he ignores her. “Used my magic to put her under a spell. Lured her to me. She didn’t know what she was doing. See for yourself, she’s white as a ghost and uttering nonsense.”

A sharp silence hangs in the air. Count Tybalt does not say anything, but the way he is looking at Geralt makes the hairs on Lena’s body stand straight. It is as if he wants a noose around the witcher’s neck.

“I see,” he says at last. “Well, since you’ve admitted to your wrong, then it is only appropriate that you atone by providing proper compensation. I should think the sum we agreed on for your service is a fair cost. Bear in mind, I shall expect you to carry on with your duties as before until we return to Novigrad.”

Geralt remains still, his jaw tightening. For a moment, Lena is convinced he is going to cast that weird compelling hex on the count. Or worse, that he might send a blast of flames the count’s way. ‘Never try to cheat a witcher of his coin,’ that is what they always say.

“Dear count, it’s not like that,” Lena begs, clutching onto Count Tybalt’s arm. “I was stupid. I was-”

“There’s no need to defend the witcher, Lena. Your naivety blinds you, but I cannot expect anything less from your previous upbringing. The witcher has taken advantage of that, and I’m afraid you have fallen prey to his trap.”

“Please count, he deserves the coin-”

“Fine. Agreed.” Geralt’s voice is as dark as the impending night.

“Right then, now that that’s settled, we shall forget this whole debacle.” The count grabs Lena by the wrist. “Come now, be a good girl and go wait for me in my bedroom. You know what I like.” He starts to tug her along with him back to the house. “And witcher,” he adds behind his shoulders, his grip crushing her wrist, so tight that blood stops flowing to her palm. Lena clenches her teeth. “You’d do best to find your own toy to play with.”

As she is dragged away, her head turns back, desperate, at Geralt. He is still on the bench, those weird yellow eyes set on her as if they are not quite done with her yet.

Count Tybalt instructs Lena to his room. She is to undress to her corset, open up his red chest and lay out its contents on the bed, then wait for him until he is done with the party. Something in his tone suggests that things will be very different between them tonight. Left with no choice but to obey, Lena makes her excuses to Dysart and the guests before forcing her feet upstairs.

A fire has been lit, along with candles housed in ornate lamps. Warm yellow light washes over the patterned carpet of Count Tybalt’s bedroom, tracing the shadow of a large four poster bed standing in the middle of a raised floor. Lena walks behind the carved folding screen and starts to unlace her gown, staring at the intricate floral etchings of each panel, her mind blank with the exception of dread. The beautiful beaded gown falls into a shimmering pile around her feet. She does not bother to pick it up and steps on it, feeling the beads dig into the soles of her feet as she walks to the vanity to release the pearls from her hair, letting a rush of curls fall pass her shoulders. The red chest Count Tybalt mentioned sits at the edge of the bed. She kneels to unlock its golden clasp.

A gasp echoes through the empty room. Her gasp. She picks up one of the objects, and then drops it like a hot iron when she realises what it is meant for. The sharp metal clamps fall with a sinister clang back into the depths of the chest. A cold creeps down her spine as she stares at the rest of the contents in the chest. Other similar objects lay immobile, waiting. Among them, a cast iron head gear, weights joined to coiled long rope, a leather flogger, a metal cone with a rounded edge, and the most horrifying of all; a sinister pear-shaped device made of three bronze claws that spread out like an eagle’s talons when wound from a turnkey on the top. Her bones stiffen. She can only think of where it is meant to be inserted.

These things, she has heard about them before. Even the Passiflora bans the use of them, but the courtesans who once walked the streets whisper of them. They warn that if a woman of the night picked up the wrong customer, she would have much to fear, for these are devices meant for torture; things that only a sick mind would use for pleasure. How hard and long does Count Tybalt mean to whip her with that flogger? She slams the chest and scrambles away from it, her face crumpling to panic.

Never in her life had Lena ever planned to try fisstech. It is a vile drug, capable of degrading a rich man to a beggar. She knew some of the courtesans at the Passiflora who take it before dealing with their customers. It eases their soul, sends them to a different place while they do the deed, but Lena never desired to fall into its crutches until now. She remembers once seeing Count Tybalt take some of the white powder out of a pouch and rub it on his gums. Amrynn once told her that if a courtesan takes too much fisstech up the nose, her soul may leave her body for the entire night. The count might have brought it with him. It is worth a try. Downstairs, she can still hear the faint music and chatter of the party. She bolts to the vanity, pulling open every drawer, digging through the junk. By the time Count Tybalt arrives, she will want her mind completely ripped from this world.

Nothing in the drawers. She tries his luggages; it might be in one of his coats. Clinging onto the sliver of hope that he does not have it on him, her fingers fumble over rich fabric, sticking into each pocket, coming out with nothing. She rifles through the second trunk; a gold watch, a cameo pendant, a pouch of crowns… still nothing.

She pulls out two crumpled envelopes and is about to stuff them back in when she catches sight of the handwriting scrawled on the front. She blinks, staring at the messy ink lines forming her name, blotchy but clear. She flips to the other envelope and sees her name on it as well. Their seals have been torn open. Her fingers twitch. She pulls out a folded letter from the first envelope and stares at a long mess of words, written with the scribbled handwriting similar to that of a self-taught peasant.

 

_My Darling Sister,_

_Praise the heavens, never thought I’d live to see you again! But there y’are. Probably don’t remember me. You were just a child when ma and pa died. Thought you’d gone to the other side with them. Then I saw you at the Vegelbud Estate… all dressed up like a proper lady. Couldn’t be sure at first since you didn’t recognise me. Then this count was calling out your name and I knew it had to be you. You’ve done well for yourself, lil’ sis. Marryin’ to riches and all that. Now that you’re readin’ this, I’m not sure if you’re happy to hear from me seeing as we’ve never known each other… and you’re a lady of class and all that… but I had to try. We should catch up. I work as a stable hand for the Vegelbuds. Please, come see me._

_Your brother,_

_Luca._

 

She tears open the other letter.

 

_Lena,_

_Tried to visit you at the count’s residence in Novigrad. Why won’t you see me? I know I don’t have much to my name, but surely you could spare some time for your own blood? Or are you too embarrassed to be related to a lowly stable hand? Do I not deserve to get to know my own sister?_

_I’ll try to visit you again soon. Hopefully this time you’ll let your poor brother in._

_Luca._

 

A hand claps over her mouth. She screams, but her cries are muffled.

“It’s me.” Geralt’s deep rasp breaks her panic. She had been so absorbed with the letters she did not even hear him coming in. He lets go of her and his gaze roams down her body. “Gotta admit, I don’t mind the view,” and she remembers she is only in a corset.

“I need a favour, Geralt. I need you to keep these safe for me. Just for tonight.” Lena shoves the letters at him. “The count can’t know I’ve found these. I’ll explain later. You should go. I don’t even want to know what you’re doing here in the first place. We are in enough trouble as it is. Wait- do you have fisstech on you by any chance?”

For someone who is familiar with urgency, Geralt seems to take his time answering her. He cocks a brow up, “That bad huh? Didn’t know you like the stuff.”

“I don’t. Now please just give me the fisstech.”

“Don’t reccomend it.”

“Geralt, I don’t have time to explain!” Lena grows impatient. The count might walk in anytime soon. “Please just give it to me and leave.”

“Count’s not coming up.”

She pauses. “What?”

“He won’t be coming up,” he states as if it is a known fact. “Spiked the last round of drinks. Count had three goblets of it. He won’t be coming up. None of them will. Spiked the servants’ broth too.”

“You killed them?!”

“Put them to sleep,” he corrects. “Now, will you relax? Count’s gonna wake up and think that he had too much to drink. So will the rest of the guests.”

Lena throws her arms around the witcher. “Oh, thank heavens!” she cries, catching him off guard. “Oh, Geralt, it’s horrible! Those things he plans to use on me… I-” she stops, fighting back the urge to burst into tears. She will not know how to recover after that. It also didn’t seem right to cry in front of Geralt.

“What things?” he asks.

She points at the red chest of horrors and he goes to open it. She does not follow. Another look and she out all the wine in her will end up on the carpet. She can see Geralt inspecting its contents, his expression growing darker with each passing moment.

“Sick bastard,” he mutters. Without another word, he slams down the chest, picks it up like it weighs nothing at all, then heads over to the window and flings it out. A loud crash. He returns to her. “You should reconsider the whole mistress thing. Nilfgaardian army uses devices like those to torture their prisoners for information. No amount of gold is worth it.”

“You know damn well gold is not what I want,” she snaps.

Geralt grunts, falling silent. He knows all too well what she wants. Whether he cannot or will not give it to her is a different matter altogether. For a man who has lived for more than a century, Lena would have thought he should be an expert when it comes to reading a woman’s heart. She can’t have been his only affair in the last hundred years.

“You may want these back.” He hands her the envelopes but not before spying what is written on them. “Who are they from?”

“My brother, Luca.” The weight of the letters’ contents finally start to sink in. “He wants to see me.”

“Thought you said he’s dead.”

“Apparently not.” Lena flips open a letter to let him read it. “That day at the Vegelbud derby, I saw him. He was the stable boy who gave me directions when I was going to meet you. The count must have run into him too, which is why he thinks I’m a countess.”

“That was a good day.”

“A bedroom would have been nicer. Anyway, after I came out of the stables, I remember the count hiding a letter from me. Here-” she traces her finger along a sentence. “He writes that he’s tried to see me, but I think the count didn’t want me finding out about him. The count probably knew that I would want to meet him. Oh, how foolish of me! I should have recognised him then and there. But, we were so young back when... No, I was too young- I couldn’t have remembered what he looked like, let alone know what he looks like now… ”

“Don’t see why the count doesn’t just let you meet him.”

“And have his mistress be related to a peasant boy? Count Tybalt would rather hang himself than be shamed like that. As it is, I’m no longer allowed contact with my friends from the Passiflora, not even Marquise Serenity. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know about Marcus.”

“Then why not go to him? He’s your brother. Sure he’ll take you in. Better than being stuck with that sick bastard.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?” Her hands fall. “I can’t just run away, Geralt. The count has paid a great fee to acquire me. He will come after me. Even if I do manage to evade him, how will I be able to fend for myself? I have no coin to my name, no knowledge of the world outside of Novigrad… I won’t know what to do… I can’t...”

She drops onto the bed, head bent, crushing the letters in her hands. The only silver lining is that her brother is well; the last thread to her name still has breath in his lungs. To know that he walks this land, has made a decent living for himself, it is a good thing to know, even if she will never be a part of it.

“I’ll go with you.”

He is kneeling before her, shadowing the light of the fireplace behind, his black scaled armour formidable. He lifts her chin to meet his scarred face. There is a softness in his grim eyes. “You won’t be alone. I’ll go with you. We’ll find your brother.”

She hesitates. “But what about Skellige?”

“Owe you this at least. I’ll go after we track down your brother. Won’t take too long. Most of my jobs involve finding missing people. Only end up dealing with monsters because they’re the cause of the missing. Besides, don’t feel too comfortable leaving you with the count.”

“Geralt, I…” her voice falters. “I don’t know what to say. You don’t have to do this. There must be something I can do to-”

“No need.”

“I’ll pay you. I don’t have much, only clothes and some jewellery that I brought here but you can sell them for some coin-”

“Hush. Not another word,” he murmurs. Gently, he runs the back of his hand along her cheek. “You’re my reward.”

He kisses her. A deepening kiss. Slow and long. Her hands find his long white hair, falling to trace the armoured pads of his shoulders, down his chest. How long has she not felt the skin under his armour? The heat of his body, to trace bumps of the scars on his back. The laces of her corset comes loose, and her back falls onto silk sheets.

He is on top of her. “Said it yourself, a bedroom is nicer. So, do we have a deal?”

She smiles at the witcher. “Deal.”

“Good.”

In one swift move, he rips the corset in two.

 

 


	7. Chasing Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When distance seems to be an issue.

For the first time in her life, Lena opens her eyes to the warmth of a man who is right where he is supposed to be. The bed they had slept in is not a very good one, and its frame creaked a heavy moan as she shifts to face another pair of eyes still asleep, hidden behind straying white hair. His breaths are heavy, as though even in sleep he fights a battle. Though her leg is numb beneath the weight of his, she dares not make another sound, afraid she will ruin the pleasure of such a sight before its end.

Light is creeping through the thin, shoddy curtains. She remains still, listening to the sounds of a morning which has long begun. Unlike Novigrad City, a village is not inclined to wait for the sun to shine before it builds a sweat. Mule-drawn wagons have already been put to work, wheels lumbering along dirt pavements, the distant grinding of a blacksmith’s whetstone, the cackling and hollering of villagers; they are the kinds of noise the residents of Gildorf privy themselves against. But here, silent within these strange and familiar sounds, lost in a tiny forgotten room above an inn, she is free.

The heavy breaths cease. Geralt stirs, his piercing yellow eyes coming to life. 

“Morning,” she whispers, and pecks his lips. “You’re late.”

“Didn’t have to wait for me,” he murmurs, still half asleep.

“But I wanted to, we’ve had such a long night. Should we get something to eat before we go? ”

His hand finds its way up her thigh. “It was a good night.”

She smiles, welcoming his touch. “Somehow, it just gets better everytime.”

Two days have passed since they had rode off from Moldavie Residence into the thick of the night. Roach could only carry so much, and so Lena had only the allowance of one saddlebag which she had filled with all her available fine jewellery, a change of garments and a pouch of crowns they found in Count Tybalt’s trunk along with any small item of value that could fetch a price. She can only imagine the shock of the household waking up to utter confusion, and of the count to find that his new mistress had vanished along with the witcher. 

The count is certain to be searching for her now, and Lena knows he will not rest until he has retrieved his property back. But, having Geralt as a companion has its benefits. His knowledge of the land has kept them away from the main roads and hidden from unwanted attention. To her relief, they had not come across anymore nekkers, only wolves and arachasae, and Geralt had sent her off on Roach while he took care of them. He was kind enough to let her inspect the monster bodies after he made sure none of them were still moving.

Geralt is the first to get out of the rickety bed. According to him, witchers don’t usually sleep in, unless they have had too much to drink of course, which happens more often than one suspects. In fact, he hardly ever slept on beds at all.

“A bed’s not going to appear out of nowhere on the road,” he says, pulling on his boots. His attention turns to Lena’s dress draped over a wooden chair. Its hem is sodden with dirt from trampling around forests and mud, but the hundreds of tiny pearl embellishments dotting its bodice still shine like a gilded beacon. “That all you got? Bit much for a village.”

“Because I would have thought to bring peasant clothes to a nobleman’s soiree.”

He grunts, but says no more and leaves the room without explanation. The door shuts, and Lena stares at the spot where he once stood, wondering if he had gone to get them some food. She had learnt that there is no use in prying words from Geralt’s mouth when he does not wish to speak. Now alone, the tiny room in which she had slept seems to have lost its charm, and its rustic furnishings of three - a bed, a chair and a dresser- have revealed their true forms as inferior, rotting wood, and the sheets she lay in are not fresh and white, but old and stained. 

Is this to be her life from now on? She picks herself from the bed, and lands on bare feet upon the dusty floorboards. The noises outside the window start to sound less appealing. Clutching the sheets to her chest, she lets it trail behind her as she slips her feet into her soiled velvet slippers. When this is all over and Geralt has left her, will she be able to bear the fall from jewels and carriages to sacks and dirt? It had not dawned on her until now to give much thought to it. Everything about Geralt just screams adventure, and she had rushed in like a gust of wind.

She is half dressed when the door clicks open. 

“Oh good, you’re back. Help me with my corset will you?”

“You won’t need it,” Geralt says and hands her what looks like a potato sack.

Lena stares at the ball of brown fabric, unable to hide her distaste. “I don’t take kindly to wearing rags. My own dress will do fine.”

“Not going to travel with a clear target for bandits.”

“And what will they do? Take my dress?”

“They’ll do more than that.”

For awhile, they stood glaring, as if daring the other to make a move. Then, Geralt takes a step closer and rips the corset from her body. She gasps, her eyes traveling to his wicked grin. He grips her, pulling her in, his warm breath prickling the skin on her neck. “Put it on.”

Lena hesitates, then takes the rags. Morbid curiosity compels her to wonder what he intended to do if she had not, and whether she in actual fact wanted to find out. But, Geralt had already let go and seems satisfied. She decides to wear a corset as sign of protest. 

“Got to get moving. It’s a couple hours ride away to the next village. If the servant at the Vegelbud Residence is right, we’ll find your brother there.”

There was no mention of Luca’s whereabouts or where he lived. All they had to go on was the knowledge that he worked as a stablehand for the Vegelbuds, so that was where they headed after fleeing Moldavie Residence. Ingrid Vegelbud had taken one look at Lena and known exactly who she was. It took a lot of convincing from Geralt’s side before Ingrid promised she would not tell the Count that his missing mistress had turned up at her estate, and it was only because she owed Geralt a debt for lending a hand in smuggling her mage son out of Novigrad.

Luca was not there. It seems that after the stunt he had pulled at Count Tybalt’s villa in Novigrad, the count had persuaded Ingrid to let him go, and Ingrid, who was not one to tarnish a good relationship over a stable boy, did as he wished. She did not even feign surprise when they told her he was Lena’s brother. “If the boy had the gall to throw a tantrum in Tybalt’s private property, I’d say he had it coming to him. Now, it seems to me that throwing caution to the wind runs in the family.” Lena had a sense that Ingrid Vegelbud was not particularly fond of her, and she was right. “Forgive me for being so curt, Lady Lena. It’s just that Countess Heleness was a dear friend of mine. It was a sad thing to see her go. I still mourn her death today,” Ingrid had said.

After Ingrid made it clear she knew not of where Luca went after he left her gates, the next step that was to question the servants at the estate. None of them would really speak to Geralt because of all the stories they had heard about witchers. A few even thought that Geralt had been sent to kill Luca. Eventually, a boy who worked with Luca at the stables had agreed to tell Lena where her brother was if they promised they would not hurt him, and if they had the grace to part with 50 crowns. Geralt was not pleased.

“Let us hope the stable boy is right,” she says.

“He took my coin. He better be.”

“Have you been to Midcopse before?”

“Only passed through one time, but I know where it is. Got to be careful. Lots of bandit camps around the borders. They can be worse than monsters.”

“Men are worse than monsters.” 

Lena runs her fingers through her tangled hair, regretting she had forgotten to pack her brush along. After fooling around with Geralt in the count’s room, they had left in such a hurry and it is only now that she is counting all the useful things she had left behind, like a bottle of perfume for one. She reeks of sweat and grime. The only consolation is that Geralt pays no notice to her odour, only because he smells worse. She thinks of the milk baths she used to have all the time at the Passiflora and how she took the luxury for granted. Her skin does not keep itself so soft by magic. Geralt has probably never seen the inside of a tub for ages.

It is going to be a long ride, as Geralt points out. Then there is the issue of finding her brother. Will she be able to recognise him? She says she can, and mentions that they will be able to confirm his person by the birthmark they share.

Geralt nods. “Hard to miss such a thing. All we got to do is strip the shirts off every candidate and find little Redania on his back.”

“Oh, I don’t think it goes beyond your occupation.” 

“Mmm… Much rather be stripping you.”

“You can describe it in detail to me along the way.” She pats down her skirt. For once, Lena is grateful to have no mirror in sight. She has no desire to gaze upon her reflection as a peasant girl. “Perhaps you will also tell me a little more about your life.”

Silence. It is expected. This has always been Geralt’s immediate answer whenever she deemed appropriate to ask anything personal of him. 

“Oh, come on. I’ll trade you. You tell me something about yourself, and I’ll tell you something in return.”

He walks over to his two swords and secures them on his back. “Gather your things. Be waiting outside with Roach.”  
  
  
  
  


 

A man peers at them over a low line of crumbling stick fences. Black soot bordered his eyes, but there was is no mistaking the scowl he wears deep as a well. 

“Hide the wenches, witcher’s comin’!”

“Well Geralt, your reputation certainly precedes you,” Lena points out as they stride down the Midcopse’s narrow main road. 

After a few hours on horseback and a gang of drowners, Lena is dying for a goblet of wine and a roof to shield her burnt skin from the sweltering midday heat. In comparison to her current state, Geralt has hardly broken a sweat underneath all that leather and chainmail.

She pants, and proceeds to fan herself with her hand. It is becoming increasingly harder to maintain her posture, and she curses ever deciding to wear the bloody corset. “Before we start the hunt, please can we stop by an innkeep?”

“Nearest one’s where we came from.”

“Huh… huh...You know this place… huh... quite well...huh... for someone who once only passed through.”

He seems to be in a better mood now that they have arrived and decides to take her bait. “Had some dealings here with a sorceress once.”

“I’ve never met a sorceress before… huh… huh... Do you know many?”

“Too many. Some are nicer than others.”

“What’s she like?”

“Used to be a herbalist here, scared all the villagers. You wouldn’t have liked her.” 

A noticeboard catches his eye and he diverts them over to it. Across the path, Lena sees a stream. Two little boys are splashing about, screaming and fighting off one another. Her toes start to squirm, but Geralt is fixed on their mission and she’d be a lousy sister to Luca if she strays. 

Frayed yellow papers are nailed haphazardly all over a wide wooden board, the writing on some too faint to read as cause of the sun and rain. Lena squints at some lines of messy ink scratchings. “To the bastard who stole my chicken: Stop telling me he ran away! I know one of you took Albert from his pen when I was asleep. If I find out you’ve made him your supper, you’re going to be sorry.” She giggles. “Sounds like a contract for a witcher.”

“This one is.” He tears a paper from its nail. “Man named Ivan is looking for someone. Missing person fits your brother’s description, and his name.”

“Give me that.” She scans the words, confirming them for herself. “So you mean to tell me that my brother could already be dead?”

“Don’t get worked up. First, we find out where this Ivan lives. Shouldn’t take long, it’s a small village.”

“Right, just… give me a minute alright?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she bolts across the cracked dirt path. Shoes off. Her feet splashes into the stream’s cool water and she breathes an air of relief. Scooping some of the brown water, she pats her neck and chest, sighing again in satisfaction as the prickling on her skin start to sooth. She starts to wash her face and then looks up to see Geralt with his arms crossed. 

“Well, aren’t you going to join me?”

He shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“That water’s not just for washing clothes.”

“What?”

“There’s a reason it’s brown.”

Her eyes travel from him to the murky water in her hands. She stifles a gag. Geralt makes no effort to be of assistance as she scrambles out of the stream. He is too busy trying his best not to smile. 

“Surprised you didn’t notice the smell,” he adds.

“Do shut up.”

After enduring a couple more teases from Geralt, they start off with their first house. To Lena, it did not look so much of a house than a bundle of wood and straw knocked together.  A woman well beyond her youth answers the door. Hard lines stretched across her face like the lines of a map, bordering her thin, cracked lips all the way to her sagging eyes which are brimming with distrust. Her bony fingers grip her broom handle tighter.

“You again,” is the first thing she says upon setting eyes on Geralt. “There’s no more witches for you. I’ll want no trouble here, and if its coin you’re after, I have none of that too.”

“Not here to cause trouble, not here for your coin too. Just want to ask you a few questions,” Geralt says and unfolds the notice. “About Ivan. As it happens, we’re looking for the same man as him.”

The woman eyes Geralt up and down one more time. “So… Luca owes you coin to, eh? Well, e’s got it comin’ to ‘im if a witchers af’er him now. Serves ‘im right.”

“My brother is in debt to you?” Lena asks. “What for?”

“Same reason as the next door, and the door af’er that. Why d’ya think no one’s gone lookin’ for ‘im? We all know we ain’t never seein’ our gold again, so ‘e’s better off bein’ dead.” She spits on the floor. “So… said you’re ‘is sister, eh? Yeah, we all heard about you, we did. Damn fool told us you were some sort of noble lady. Promised us ‘e’d pay us back when ‘e meets you.” The woman’s hardened eyes darts from Lena’s face to the rags covering her body. “You don’t look like no noble to me. Still, what’s a pretty thin’ like you doin’ with a witcher? Stole you from your bed in the dead of the night, did he? Along with the young’uns?”

“Know where Ivan is?” Geralt asks.

“Weren't talkin’ to you, was I?”

“Please madam, the witcher’s only trying to help me,” says Lena. She pauses, then reaches into her pocket and retrieves a pair of pearl earrings, the same one she had worn to Count Kurt Dysart’s lavish party a mere two days ago. She presses them into the woman’s hand. “I don’t know how much Luca owes you, but I hope this helps. Now please, will you kindly help us out?”

If there was any concern as to whether the earrings belongs to Lena or was actually stolen, the woman showed none of it, and in a flash, the earrings disappears from their sight, as if she was afraid Lena might change her mind. 

“‘e don’t live ‘ere in the village no more, but ‘e’s not far off. Follow the path north, you’ll find ‘im there. After the witch left, they moved into ‘er cabin and now Ivan’s our ‘erbalist. But, if you’re planning on gettin’ ‘im to go lookin’ for Luca with you, you’re out of luck. You’ll see what I mean.” Without hesitation, the door slams shut, leaving them standing alone outside once more.

“Is it always like this with you?” asks Lena as they walk off.

“Used to it. Not many people take kindly to witchers. Blame it on the stories,” he says. “Shouldn’t have given her the pearls. Now the whole village will be wanting you to do the same for them.”

“He’s my brother Geralt, I’ll do what I want.”

They walk in silence. All the while, Lena is thinking if she has made the right choice. Running away with a man whose reputation spells danger in search of a long lost brother was not exactly what she had envisioned her future to be. Right decision or not, she has gone too far, and whether their search will prove fruitful, he will leave her at the end of it either way. She will be left with nothing. This is not how she imagined freedom to be.

“Why are you going to Skellige?” she asks. 

“Really want to do this now?” he sighs. “I’m looking for someone.”

“A contract?”

He shakes his head. “Someone important to me. Some bad people are looking for her. Got to find her before they do.”

“Is it Triss?”

“No,” he replies, and judging by the tone of his voice, the topic has come to an end. “My turn. Nekkers, you’re afraid of them. Why?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Been on the road with you long enough. You don’t get like that with drowners or arachasae, always wanted to see their bodies afterwards. Not the case with nekkers, something must have happened to you.”

Her eyes are fixed on the ground, watching their shadows sway. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The road seems so much longer under the heat. 

“They killed my parents.”

Left, right, left, right, left, right. “Damn. Sorry.”

“I was five. I don’t remember much of it.”

“How did you get away?”

“I was lucky.”

The path winds up a small slope. A faint scent of herbs drifts their way. Wild bushes give way to the sight of low fences, and behind it, molley arrows and han fibers in full bloom, stems pointing towards the sun. 

“This is the place,” says Geralt. “Been here before.”

They come up to the front door of the wood cabin and just as Geralt lifts his hand, Lena stops him.

“Wait. I- I need a minute.” 

“Won’t find him in there.”

“I know. It’s just…” she looks at Geralt, reaches up and pecks him on the cheek. “Thank You.”

He nods. “Let’s see what we can get out of Midcopse’s resident herbalist.”

No one answers at first. Geralt knocks again, then tries the handle but it is locked. 

“Strange. Never encountered a herbalist who doesn’t want any customers.” He tries knocking again. “Anyone in there? Looking for an Ivan. Here about that notice up on the village board.”

“Maybe no one’s home.”

They wait a few more moments, then from behind the door comes a sound, like something too heavy to lift is being rolled across the floor. The handle twitches, and the door creaks open. What greets them is something both Lena and Geralt can agree they would have never expected. Lena turns to Geralt and sees that he is just as shocked as she is. 

The man’s smile is warm, peering up at them with kind eyes, registering first her and then the witcher. His hand lifts from where is was resting on the chair’s arm to greet the both of them. When she takes his hand, she notices how frail it is for a man so young, as if the paper thin skin covering its bones is going to crumble into dust at any given moment. “You must be Lena. I’ve heard a lot about you from Luca. I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time. And master witcher! You’re the one who removed the witch from this very cabin.”

“Are you Ivan?” Lena asks.

His flashes a dashing smile. “The one and only. Please, come in, come in!”

They watch him reverse back into the cabin. He puts his weight on one side and slowly  maneuvers the chair’s two larger back wheels to circle around. Then floorboards groan as he glides through the room, and they follow the back of his head as he leads them to the fireplace. 

“Please, have a sit, you and master witcher. Would you like anything to drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he reaches for two cups and fills them with the contents of something boiling over the fire. “Brewed it just this morning, it’s my special blend. I know it’s a hot day but the herbs will help to cool your insides. Here, drink up.”

Geralt gives his cup a sniff, then deeming it to be safe, empties the liquid down his throat in one gulp. “Tastes like shit.”

“I said it was special, didn’t say it was delicious,” Ivan chuckles. He then turns to Lena and pats the arm of his chair. “You’re probably wondering how such a good-looking man as myself got into this pickle.” 

Lena reddens, realising he had caught her staring. In truth, he is strikingly handsome, with deep blue eyes, tousled blonde locks and a chiseled jaw. It seems cruel that the world had bound him to a chair for eternity. 

“An ox cart,” he continues. “Clumsy, blundering things. I woke up a few days later, but I never stood up again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not everyday you see a man rolling around in a chair,” he winks. “Such a curious thing, isn’t it? Your brother made it for me. Handy piece of contraption, this is. Wheels where the legs should be. Luca was always the smarter one, even though I read more books than him. But, don’t tell him I said that. He’s got enough pride in him to last another lifetime.”

“You know my brother well?” Lena asks. 

“Well, I should think so by now. We’ve known each other for the past fifteen years, still had a good pair of legs when I met him. Oh, we were inseparable! But one morning… well, the beast was charging straight at Luca. I had to do something. I never regretted it, not now, not ever. Honestly, I thought he would have been long gone by now. Nobody likes an angry cripple. But, he stayed, and slowly, things became better. I stopped being a bitter fool and accepted my fate. If I were given a choice again and it was either me or him in front of that cart, I’d do it again.”

His eyes drifts to the ceiling as if reminiscing upon a secret memory, and for a moment he seems to have lost himself. “Oh, but wait! I’m terribly sorry, I seem to have lost manners along with my mobility. Master witcher, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to address you.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the witcher nods. “Saw your message on the notice board. When was the last time you saw Luca?”

Ivan’s smile falters, as if just now realising that Luca is not with them. “He said he was going out hunting in the woods. It’s been five days now.” He gives a nervous laugh, “Must be some big game he’s after.”

“Talked to one of the villagers in town, says Luca’s been borrowing coin. Think that might have something to do with his disappearance?”

“Geralt, maybe another time,” says Lena, noticing Ivan’s grip tighten around the arm rests. 

“No, it’s perfectly alright. There’s no point in hiding it,” says Ivan. “Yes, we owe some coin. Quite a substantial sum in fact. Between the both of us, Luca’s the only one who’s fit for work, and ever since he was let go by the Vegelbuds, it’s been hard for us. I try to help out with the herbs, but there’s only so many sick villagers in a month. Luca’s tried for employment at other great houses, but without a proper referral, no one would take him in.”

“How much?” asks Geralt.

Ivan hesitates. “Five thousand crowns.”

“Five thousand?!” Lena stares at him. 

“Well... yes, I am aware that it’s quite a sum. But please, you cannot blame Luca for it. He was so sure he could make it back, and to be honest, I thought he was excellent at gwent. He always managed to beat me.”

There is another part of Ivan more crippled than his legs. It is his eyes; they are blind even as they regard her so clearly, so alive. Lena knows that look. He believes her brother can do no wrong, and no matter what they say, those eyes cannot be reasoned with. It is the same way she looks at Geralt.

“Geralt, will you pass me my saddlebag?” she says. Geralt’s mouth forms into a hard line. Clearly, he disapproves. “Please,” she adds firmly.

She waits for him to hand over the bag in reluctance. She peers into its contents, counting in her head. Three necklaces, two pairs of earrings, half a dozen pearl baubles, one ruby ring. It was everything she had left; the things she once held so dear. She gives the bag to Ivan. “This should be enough to settle Luca’s debts.”

Ivan opens the flap and his eyes grow wide. “But this is too much! I cannot very well accept this.”

“Trust me, I know what it’s like to be trapped with no way out,” she says. “If giving up my jewels means freeing Luca, then please take it. The both of you need it more than I do.”

Tears brim in Ivan’s eyes, and after thanking them profusely again and again, he made them drink another cup of horrible herbal stew, and then told them they could take his whole cabinet of herbs if they wished, and to make themselves at home before wheeling out to the village to pay off all of Luca’s debts. 

“There goes your livelihood,” says Geralt once the door shuts. 

“My brother’s all I have now. You would do the same in my situation.”

Geralt drops his gaze down to his lap. His fingers are moving, playing around with something in its grasp. He takes her hand and a tiny hairpin falls onto her palm. Its clasp is a brilliant silver and at one end, a single citrine stone gleams bright as a fire. It reminds her of the witcher’s own eyes, which was exactly what went through her head when she had decided to purchase it not long after meeting Geralt. Yellow for his eyes. Silver for his swords. It is one of the very few things she had bought with her own coin, and had deemed unappropriate to wear for Count Tybalt might ask questions. Geralt must have nicked it from the bag before she could take any notice.

“Know how much you like nice things,” he says.

The pin glides into her hair, securing a tuft just above her ear. Lena smiles. “How do I look?”

Geralt stands up and glances at the front door. “Think he’ll take long?”

“Depends on how fast that chair can move.”

He kneels down in front of her and grabs her waist, pulling her to the edge of her seat. “Then we’ll need to move faster,” he says, taking off his gloves. 

Bare hands slide underneath her skirt, prickling her skin, parting her legs, moving up her thighs. 

Her breath falls short. Blood rushes to her cheeks. “Geralt… we need to… Luca…”

“Ten minutes.” His mouth finds her neck. 

His fingers start to press into her, circling, teasing. She moans. Their mouths crash into each other. He tastes of purpose, his touch intense. Her mind escalates, growing numb as his fingers move faster, faster, their lips unbreakable. 

He is raw, untamed, drowning her every cry with the heat of his tongue. 

“Please,” she begs into his mouth. She needs him. Here. Now. 

“On your knees,” he orders. 

The chair is forgotten. She is down on all fours, head against the floorboards. 

“That’s it, princess. Legs apart.” 

She hears the sound of his belt buckle and starts to squirm. 

“I want you,” she pleads.

“Again.”

“I want you! Please, please, please. I want you Geralt.”

The pain is sweet. His hands are tight on her waist, and she calls out his name over and over again. Her fingers dig into the floor, she can feel the heat of him trickling down her thighs as he takes her from behind.

He clutches her hair, pulling her head back. A hand moves under her belly, sliding down, pressing into her, beckoning more moans. Through ragged breaths, she begs for more. It is not enough, she wants it all. 

“Dirty, dirty girl,” his voice is rough. “How hard must I fuck you.”

He plunges in deep, hard, making her feel every inch of him; taut, ravenous. She cries out in sheer pleasure, spiralling out of control as he powers over her in full force, filling her up whole. Nothing exists except the heat coursing in her veins; she is like a burning coil, growing tighter and tighter, ready to explode. 

And he is merciless, relentless, as he takes her over and over again. 

All at once, they come undone, falling in a mess of tangled limbs onto the floor, faces inches apart, breaths still heavy. She buries her face in his neck and kisses him, tasting salty beads of sweat. Slowly, she lets her hand run up the ripples of chainmail covering his chest, touching his face, tracing his lips.

Piercing yellow eyes stare back at her in silence, and she loses herself in them. All she can think of is how much she wants this to last, for him to hold her like this. Just one more moment like this, and another, and another.

“Geralt,” she whispers. “I-”

He rolls away and buckles up his belt. She bites her lip. The moment is gone. He doesn’t want to hear it. Anyway, she will not get the answer she wants. Reaching out a hand, she touches his arm, willing him to come back to her, to put his arms around her again.

Nothing prepared them for the crash that came next. The door flings open. It all happened so fast. Dirty, black boots stomp in, followed by two more, then four more. Before Geralt can reach for his sword, Lena is dragged to her feet screaming. More boots fill up the space, surrounding them, stepping on Geralt, pinning him back onto the floor, pulling her further away from him. She screams again, and a hand claps over her mouth. 

The voice belonging to the hand is filled with menace. A man’s voice. “Move and I’ll slit her throat.” The sharp edge of a dagger presses into her skin. Geralt becomes still. 

A single pair of shoes step in from the light outside, not at all like the ones worn by the men holding them captive. An elegant pair, made of soft black velvet and a gold buckle. Count Tybalt adjusts his golden eyeglasses and bares his pearly white teeth.

“A good businessman always keeps track of his investments.” He looks down at Geralt, who is still pinned under several boots, and smirks. His eyeglasses travel to Lena. “But in this case, I must admit I’ve invested poorly. I’ve failed to realise a fundamental flaw, but I now know my mistake.” His eyes narrow on her with a sneer. “Once a whore, always a whore.” He spits at her.

Geralt struggles and the heel of a boot twists down into his chest. 

“Uh-uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Count Tybalt wags a finger at Geralt.

More boots start to kick him. Lena screams for them to stop but the dagger only presses deeper into her throat. They kick and kick with such force, knocking him around, kicking everywhere. He is wincing, gritting his teeth, refusing to give in to the pain. Lena starts to weep, begging the count to stop it, telling him he can do whatever he wants to her, that none of this was Geralt’s fault, it was all hers, for the count to let him go. 

The kicking continues. Geralt’s face is bleeding, splotches of his blood mark the wooden floorboard. Finally, the count raises a hand and the boots stop. Geralt spits out more blood. 

Count Tybalt’s smile sends a horrible chill down Lena’s spine. “Like my new guards? Some might call them bandits, but I prefer use the term ‘henchmen’. Rather useful bunch, and not only for stealing art. I pay them very well of course, among other various benefits. Would you like to see what else they can do?” 

He snaps his fingers and Lena is brought on her knees. The boot on Geralt’s chest is now on his head, forcing his face to one side. The count claps his hands in glee. “Now, a test. How much force must we use to crush a witcher’s skull?”

“No!” Lena screams. “Please! Kill me! Kill me!” She throws herself at Count Tybalt’s feet. “Please, please! I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him. No more.”

The count pauses. “Alright then, kiss my shoes. Like a good little dog.”

Lena lowers her head. Her eyes meet Geralt across the floor. His face is a red mess. He is telling her not to do it. She blinks back tears.

Count Tybalt catches sight of them. “Will you look at that? The whore is in love with the witcher! How pathetic.”

She grasps his shoes and does as he says, kissing each golden buckle, making her way to the velvet tips. Someone yanks her back, away from the count, away from Geralt. 

“Well, since I’m a man of my word, we will not be rid of the witcher just yet,” says the count. “He may witness the gifts I have brought you, my darling.”

Another snap of his fingers, and this time some boots shuffle out. A few moments later, one of them returns pushing a chair on wheels.

Ivan gasps. “What have you done to them?! This wasn’t our deal!” He looks from Geralt to Lena, his face horrified. “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t know. I just wanted Luca back. He said the bandits were going to give Luca back to me if I led him to you. They said they were going to hang him! I’m sorry!”

“Crippled and stupid.” Count Tybalt snatches the bag of jewellery Lena had given Ivan from his lap and dangles it in front of her. “These-” he hisses “-are not yours to give. They are mine! Like you are. Only I can choose what to do with them, and you-” he stops, catching sight of the jeweled pin on Lena’s hair. “But what’s this? I don’t recall ever purchasing such a measly thing.”

He yanks the pin off her head. Lena cries out in pain. Some of her hair had gone along with it. 

“Oh, don’t be such a baby about it. It’s the least you owe me after all I’ve given you.”

The other bandit comes back in, dragging along with him a man with a sack over his head. His wrists and feet are bound in ropes, but it served little purpose for the man’s body belongs to someone well over his years of strength. He is frail, skin sagging the way when age is unkind.

Count Tybalt is beside himself with glee, like he had been looking forward to this moment all along. “One last gift for you, my darling.”

The sack comes off. The old man is blindfolded, but unmistakable.

Lena’s voice grows hoarse. “Marcus…”

Marcus, the warm, kind book merchant who made her tea every time she visited his ancient shop. Marcus, who spent his days pondering over art and life, who taught her how to read, who saw her grow in inches from a child to a woman. He is shaking, his clothes are in tatters, bruises cover his face and hands. 

“Lena?” his old voice trembles. “Lena, is that you? What is going on?”

Lena starts to cry. “Marcus, I’m here… I’m so sorry.”

What had she let them do to him? It’s because of her that he is here, scared and helpless, clueless to the scene in front of him.

“Now this is what I call a reunion,” Count Tybalt wiggles his fingers in delight, walks over to Lena and grabs her face. “Now, my darling, if you or your revolting creature of a lover get any bright ideas, remember this. I will not only burn your poor man’s shop to the ground, but I will purchase every one of your whore friends at the Passiflora and string their necks from a tree- what are their names? Amrynn and Viola? They’d make a pretty sight hanging out under the Velen sun.”

Underneath the pressure of the bandit’s foot, Geralt growls. His yellow eyes are furious. The count chuckles low and vile, his fingers digging into Lena’s cheeks, hurting her. “Are you watching this, witcher? This slut of a woman is only good for one thing.” He forces his mouth on Lena. Then, he rips the fabric of her dress, leaving it to fall down her shoulders.

Lena grasps onto the torn sleeves. Another deafening rip, and the entire bodice falls apart, down her corset, pooling around her waist. She hugs herself, desperately trying to cover up her front. The count’s men laugh. Geralt bares his teeth. She looks up at the count and he responds with a smirk. This is not the same man who had been so taken with her at the Passiflora, the same man who had showered her with gifts and parties. This is the real Count Tybalt, and he is nothing but cruel. He never loved her, he only wanted to possess her, and all of this? A demonstration of power. He would harm everyone around her just to satisfy his craving for vengeance. He had won, they had lost.

He tosses the bag of jewellery to his henchmen, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes his hands. “A job well done, gentlemen. Couldn’t have pictured a better result myself. Keep the baubles as a bonus on top of the promised coin. Oh, yes, and have the whore as a side dish. Where she has been, I have no use for her anymore. Take the old man with you, she’ll go quietly. Oh, and along with this disgusting creature,” he pokes Geralt with his feet. “But, a promise is a promise. You can kill him tomorrow at first light.”

Rough hands take hold of her shoulders, another pulling her wrists behind her back. The hilt of a sword knocks Geralt out cold. Before Lena can scream, something soft is stuffed into her mouth. A sack goes back over Marcus’ head, and the last thing Lena sees before the room disappears from her vision is Ivan, watching from his chair in silence, his face as white as a sheet.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any thoughts? I'd love to hear from you, and any constructive criticism is always welcome to be put into words because I do believe it is crucial for a beginner writer such as myself to listen to what the readers have to say - anything you didn't like, or if there is anything you wish would be developed further, I'd be interested to know.
> 
> xx


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